


Into the Dark

by Khirsah



Series: Voice-verse [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Companion Piece, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmates, but not in a straightforward way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-03-16 02:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13626702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khirsah/pseuds/Khirsah
Summary: All mages are born with a soulmate...but forget all that. What really matters is that all mages are born with achoice, and Anders has made his. Together, he and Carver Hawke will be strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry....literally. Maker save them all.Companion/sequel toFire Walk with Me.





	1. Anders

"Love of mine, someday you will die  
But I'll be close behind and I'll follow you into the dark  
No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white  
Just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark."  
— **I Will Follow You into the Dark** by Death Cab for Cutie

The sky was on fire.

The sky was on fire, and the air was thick with billowing black smoke.

The sky was on fire, the air was thick with billowing black smoke, and _he needed to find out what was going on in that bloody Keep right the void now_.

Anders threw another anxious glance over his shoulder, eyes tracking up the wide steps toward huge double doors. It had to have been a half hour, easy, since Carver, Aidan, and the rest of them had gone up there, and still there was no word. Was everything going to plan? Were they still fighting? Were they low on potions? Did they need a friendly apostate to conveniently slip in and save the day?

Surely it couldn’t hurt to _check_.

He was already twitching toward the first step when a small (but surprisingly strong) hand clamped around his wrist. Anders very nearly groaned. “You _promised_ ,” Merrill reminded him, fixing Anders with those huge, limpid eyes. Across the courtyard, Orsino didn’t so much as glance their way. “You promised to stay here out of Meredith’s way and guard the entrance.”

“Yes, well,” Anders said. He tried to tug free, but her grip was firm. “We all make mistakes.”

“Oh, we do,” she agreed easily enough. Then she smiled, far too sweetly, and added, “And I promise I won’t let you make this one.”

Anders very nearly growled. Void take him, he couldn’t believe he was sitting out here arguing with a blood mage while his… While… While _Carver_ was up those steps, risking his life for a city who’d never fully appreciate him, facing Maker knew what without a healer in sight.

He should never have agreed to stay behind. He should have fought, and pushed, and _won_ —maybe then he’d be at Carver’s side, watching his back with a spell shivering at his fingertips. Maybe then he wouldn’t be stuck here, practically held hostage as the fight raged above and the city burned below: bloody useless to save the other half of his heart.

The feeling of impotent loss was all too familiar; his hands trembled with the shadow of memory.

“Oh, Anders,” Merrill said, expression softening at whatever she read on his face. She loosened her grip and gave his arm a little pat, gently comforting. “He’ll be all right without you! Carver is very strong, you know.”

“Bethany was strong too,” he said, and wrapped an arm around his middle at the way his gut bottomed out. _No, no, not this time._

He couldn’t bear to look at Merrill when there was so much pity in her eyes, so he turned and paced from one end of the courtyard to the next. The chaos in the streets below seemed to be slowly dying, and there hadn’t been a single attack on their position since Aidan had led the way up into the Keep. Was the main assault over? He couldn’t even tell that much. He had no way of knowing whether they were winning or losing, and there wasn’t a bloody _point_ to the mages remaining on guard when there was nothing left to guard the main party _from_.

Anders was already whirling back to face the Keep, glowering up the steps and fighting the ever-growing instinct to say _screw it all_ and go racing up after his blasted…after _Carver…_ when distant thunder rumbled.

“Oh,” Merrill said, moving to stand beside him. She cocked her head. “Is it going to rain?”

The skies _were_ black, but those were no storm clouds. Thunder rumbled again, deep enough to echo through the streets; Anders could almost swear he felt the stone beneath his feet vibrate in response. That…was not good.

“It’d be nice to have rain,” Merrill was saying, voice bright with hope. “It’d help with all the fires and—Oh, _Anders_.”

He dodged past her grasping hand, already taking the steps two at a time. “It’s coming from inside the Keep!” he called back, and damn it, if _that_ didn’t nullify any promise he’d made, he’d take it up with Carver later— _after_ the brat had survived, and he’d had a chance to inspect every inch of him twice over, just to reassure his frantically racing heart that everything was going to be okay.

( _This once, **this once** , I’m going to make it be okay_.)

Merrill called his name again, but Anders was already racing toward that growing squall—loud enough now to make his teeth ache. He stumbled, nearly pitching face-first into the steps, only to catch himself with his palms and push his way up again, barely slowing. The jarring impact was next to nothing, forgotten in an instant as lightning struck and the ground _shifted_ beneath his feet.

Maker.

The wide gold doors were hot to the touch, sizzling against his skin as if responding to whatever power thrummed deep inside the hall. Anders gave a shove, hissing out a breath when the huge door barely moved. Usually there were guards ready to pull the damn things open for the nobles and other guests who came traipsing in and out of the Viscount’s life, but Meredith must have had her damn Templars shove the heavy doors shut to buy herself more time in case of attack.

It was infuriating, impossibly frustrating, anger and terror and rapidly building panic gibbering inside his skull now that he could _hear_ the sounds of combat—the clang of metal—the gasps and screams. Anders shoved against the door with all his weight, budging it another inch, another; he’d batter himself bloody against it if he had to, mind spinning with images of what might be happening just out of sight.

(Carver, run through. Carver, falling. Carver, bleeding out, eyes filming over as his last breaths whispered between parted lips. Carver, Carver, _Carver_.)

“Here.” He was only dimly aware of Merrill jogging up to join him, her brows drawn together with growing worry as she planted her shoulder against the door and added her own slight weight. Alone, it would have barely made a dent, but together they had enough combined momentum to send the door swinging a few feet—just enough for skinny mages to squeeze through if they held their breath.

Anders was first, long staff tangling between his legs as he tried to squirm through the narrow opening. He cursed and reached over his head, grabbing at the smooth wood strapped to his back to keep it out of his way. The sound of fighting was even louder now; lightning crashed again and again, dust and bits of stone raining down from the high ceilings as the keep shook in response. The air was thick with the scent of blood, and Anders’s feet skidded through a growing puddle as he finally stumbled into the hall.

Death was everywhere.

He could feel it creeping over his skin, could sense sightless eyes locked on him. He shuddered, pausing just long enough to manage a desperate scan of the hall, taking in the bodies slumped in graceless heaps. Big and grey-skinned. _Not Carver, not Carver, not Carver_. _Thank fuck._

“This way,” he told Merrill, not bothering to wait as he picked up the long ends of his robe and _raced_ across the hall toward the double stairwell. A sudden cry broke like a crashing wave, so loud it was barely muffled by the inner sanctum’s own pair of heavy metal doors. He felt his heart winging too fast inside his chest and, and Maker, Maker, he couldn’t be too late this time. He should never have agreed to stay behind, should never have let himself be convinced by those pretty blue eyes, should never, should _never_ —

Bethany’s loss had nearly killed him. He never wanted to learn whether he was strong enough to survive Carver’s.

This time, the door pushed open easily against his panicked strength, just as the growing shout crescendoed. Anders fumbled back for his staff as he _raced_ into the final room, only half-aware of storm clouds dissipating overhead (flickers of lightning branching like golden veins across the high-arching ceiling) and _cheering_. A line of blood-streaked qunari stens marched grimly toward him, and he had just enough time to get his staff fully up, bracing for the attack.

One by one, they passed him by.

Anders half-turned, startled, to watch them go. Their neat double line parted around him as if he were a boulder to their stream—nothing more interesting than rock, their eyes barely flicking toward him. Their great spears were in hand, but the tips were pointed down.

What the void was happening? Were the qunari giving up?

The cheering was _so loud_ it filled his head with static. He turned back, lost in a sea of stens, utterly confused. He thought he caught a glimpse of Templar steel and blonde hair: Meredith. Black curls: Aidan, thank the Maker, and that must be Fenris at his side. But he didn’t see, he couldn’t see, he _would go mad_ if he didn’t find—

Anders let out a shaken breath and _shoved_ his way out of the pack of retreating qunari. He nearly fell, wobbly knees threatening to give out beneath him as he went stumbling deeper into the throne room, desperately scanning a sea of faces. There was Aveline, and Isabela. Varric, cupping his hands about his mouth and _cheering_. Aidan with, yes, Fenris close by his side, their heads tipped together. Scores and scores of Hightown’s best cheered and cried and milled around in relief mixed with ebbing terror, and Meredith’s Templars looked down upon them all, gleaming armor spattered in blood, faces impassive—and not a single one of them a welcome sight.

Carver wasn’t there.

The staff clattered as it dropped from nerveless fingers. All sound—all voices—all awareness dropped away into a heavy, formless echo of long-ago memory. He closed his eyes, trembling with the injustice of it all. _Carver_. The whole world was celebrating, and _Carver_ was nowhere to be seen. He was gone, abandoned somewhere amongst all those bodies littering the hall.

Anders had lost him.

No. Anders had barely been allowed to _have_ him, and it truly was Bethany all over again, except this time he’d had time to _know_ Carver. To tease him and talk to him and get to understand him piece by stubborn piece: to appreciate him without the aid of some soul bond leading the way. Carver was as complicated as an Orlesian puzzle box and ten times more rewarding when the answer suddenly became clear. Maker, his _smiles_. The way they changed the harsh angles of his face. The way those blue eyes looked at him, and he would never— He could never—

 _My fault_ , he thought, slowly sinking to the marble floor, Justice rattling about in his head as the whole world gave itself over to joy. _I should never have let him go alone. I should never have— This is all my fault._

He curled his fingers into impotent fists, heart breaking in slow motion—like an ice spell shattering, each shard catching what remained of the dying light. He felt, just, so much.

And then a shadow fell over his grieving form. “What the bloody void are you doing on the _floor_?” an all-too-familiar voice demanded, and Anders looked up in staggered disbelief, meeting those blue eyes: _Carver_ standing over him with that stupid giant sword strapped to his back, blood flecking his stupid gorgeous face and his stupid Templar armor, and and and—

Anders sucked in a serrated breath, swaying as the world seemed to reconstitute around him: sound and light and color snapping back into place with almost startling speed as _Carver_ reached a hand down for him, _alive_.

He gave an unhinged laugh and grabbed Carver’s fingers, letting himself be hauled up. His legs still didn’t seem to want to hold him, but Carver caught him easily, one arm around Anders’ hips to keep him close. His breath was warm against Anders’ cheeks and his expression was so torn between confusion and worry and fond exasperation that Anders wanted to laugh again—crazy, cracking laughter, sheer relief turning into something uncontrolled in his chest.

He managed to swallow it back, but only just.

“You look like someone kicked you in the teeth,” Carver murmured. He cast a quick glance toward where Meredith stood with the rest of her Templars, then subtly pulled Anders just out of sight behind a pillar. There was broken stone all around them, and the huge, hulking corpse of the Arishok off to one side. Anders could barely take it in. “No, make that knocked you over the head. Are you all right?”

Carver actually pressed the backs of his fingers to Anders’ forehead as if to check for fever, and it was such a _Carver_ gesture that Anders had to bark out another unsteady laugh. He caught Carver’s wrist and tugged his hand down to press a kiss to the bloodied knuckles, entire body thrumming with relief and the slow release of fear. “You’re alive,” Anders said, simply.

“Was _that_ what had you so worried?” he said, as if he wasn’t Anders’ whole world. “I’m fine, you melodramatic git. Everything’s more than fine, actually, though for a minute there it looked like it wasn’t going to be.” Carver reached up with his free hand to brush back loose blonde hair. The touch was remarkably gentle— _loving_ —and Anders had to close his eyes tight against the hot burn of grateful tears. This time it was going to be okay. Carver was safe, for now. “Aidan fought the Arishok in single combat, which is just about the dumbest thing he could have done. Not that he ever asks me.”

Anders hummed agreement, leaning deeper into Carver’s warmth. He wished he wasn’t wearing that damn full suit of plate armor; he wished he could start peeling it off piece by piece to get to the man beneath. His fingers actually itched with the desire to map hot skin and search out every hidden ache or bruise. He wouldn’t feel whole himself until he knew Carver was irrevocably safe.

It was possible he still hadn’t fully recovered from the trauma of Bethany’s sudden loss…but he wasn’t going to think about that now.

“There was a bad moment there, when he almost didn’t make it,” Carver continued, voice pitched low. He rested a hand along the nape of Anders’ neck, grounding him. His thumb traced up and down the delicate line of vertebrae. “Fenris stepped in and convinced the Arishok to let him, oh, give Aidan his real weapon or some-such. They bonded again,” he said. “Right there in front of everyone.”

“Good for them,” Anders murmured, meaning it. He nuzzled into Carver’s touch, feeling like a big, needy cat.

Carver snorted. “Yeah, good for them, I suppose,” he said. “It gave Aidan enough oomph to be able to heal himself. Then he pulled this glowing blue sword out of his bunghole or something,” Anders gave a surprised bark of laughter at that oh-so-Carver description, “and called down a storm and kicked the Arishok around the place until he finally took pity on him. The rest of the qunari packed it up and left once the Arishok was dead—and good riddance there. Aidan’s out to Meredith now, of course, but she can’t do fuck-all to him so long as he’s some kind of bloody _hero,_ so there’s that at least. Finally all that self-sacrificing nobility manages to do something besides get on my nerves.”

He shook his head ruefully, relaxing by careful degrees. Anders was certain that was all part of Carver’s plan, and Maker but he loved him for it. The fine tremors that had wracked his body for the past half-hour (mind filled with images of Bethany dead, Carver dead, everyone he had ever loved dead) were all but gone—put to rest again, like spirits that refused to remain permanently settled. “Varric should take notes from you on how to deliver a stirring narrative,” Anders teased. He leaned in and brushed his lips across Carver’s chin. He wanted to kiss him so badly he could taste it—could taste the memory of his lips, his tongue—but he managed to hold himself back. He was afraid if he started kissing Carver now, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

And as nice as _that_ sounded, a single pillar between them and Meredith wasn’t anywhere near enough.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Carver threatened, tangling his fingers in Anders’ hair. His eyes dropped down to Anders’ mouth before flicking back up again—as if he’d come to the exact same conclusion. “See how charitable he’s feeling toward you, after.”

“Speaking of _after…_ ”

Carver glanced over his shoulder, back toward where the cheers were _finally_ beginning to die down. He sighed. “This is all going to be a _mess_. I’d better go see what orders she has for me. We’ll be picking up the pieces of the city for the rest of the year—see if we aren’t.”

Anders caught Carver’s hand again as he began to pull away. “Wait,” he said. “You’ll be coming back later, won’t you? I need to make sure you’re—” _Okay_. _Whole_. _Safe._

Carver sighed. “I don’t know,” he had to admit. “She’s not going to be happy about what happened here. Meredith…she doesn’t like not being in control, and what Aidan did here today changed the balance of power in Kirkwall forever.”

“Good,” Anders said. A coal of something burned in his chest, blue-white and righteous. “Something like that can _only_ be good. Maybe it will finally make a difference.” He took a breath, feeling that inner spark expand as Justice flowed through him, responding as ever to the rightness of their cause. His tone took on the echoing stridency of a sermon. “Power has been in the wrong hands for too long. The old traditions were built on the backs of the mages. It’s only right we shake the foundations and…”

Anders’ words trailed to an end, muffled by Carver’s hand clapping over his mouth. He shot the other man a flat glare, but Carver just lifted his brows in unapologetic response. “You know it isn’t that I disagree with you,” Carver said easily. “It’s just that sometimes you talk too bloody much.”

Anders bit the calloused meat of his palm and Carver laughed, leaning in to brush the softest of kisses across his temple. The shell of his ear. He nosed back blonde hair, breath stirring stray strands—and _oh,_ oh but Anders had to shiver at that, grabbing for cold steel shoulders to keep himself anchored. His legs trembled and everything inside him melted at the utter sweetness.

 _What this fucking man does to me_ , he thought, eyes flickering shut.

Still, because it was them and that sweetness wouldn’t mean quite so much without a little sour, Anders bit at Carver’s hand again, laughing when the younger man huffed a breath and teasingly pushed him away.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” Carver said, warm light in his eyes belying every word. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I think you do,” Anders countered, laughing, and it was worth everything in the world to see the way that blush swept its way up Carver’s cheeks. Maker, even his ears burned cherry red. _I love you_ , he thought, letting the words ring out in the way he tilted his head, in the quirk of his brow. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ “So,” he said.

Carver practically squirmed in place, casting quick glances over his shoulder. “It’s not bloody fair,” he muttered. The nobles were filing away, and Meredith was calling out orders. Their stolen time was coming to an abrupt end. “I’m _sure_ Aidan’s over there sucking Fenris’s bloody face off—”

“Evocative,” Anders said.

“—and no one seems to _care_. But even though I’d give just about anything to kiss your stupid face right now, I can’t risk it because I’d never _stop_ —I’d just keep going and going until I’d just about swallowed your every last breath—and we’d get caught and, and stop looking at me like that.”

Now it was Anders’ turn to blush hot enough his ears were ringing. The image of Carver just shoving him back and _taking_ his mouth was… Uniquely inspiring. “I’m not looking at you any particular way,” he lied, feeling flustered and a little turned on and a lot desperate to dig his hands into dark hair and anchor Carver to him for the rest of the night.

Carver was right; it wasn’t _fair_. It wasn’t—ha!—just.

“You’re the worst sort of liar,” Carver grumbled. There was a clank of armor as the Templars began to move out. “You don’t even try to keep it out of your eyes. Damn it.” He sighed. “I have to go with them. Meredith will hit the roof once she realizes I’m missing.”

 _No,_ he almost said, almost reached for Carver’s hand. _Stay with me_. “I wanted to check to make sure you weren’t injured,” Anders said instead.

“You can check later,” Carver said. “She’ll have us working to restore order in the city through the rest of the night; I’ll try to slip away before I have to go back to the Gallows.”

 _Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me_. “I won’t be able to sleep until I know,” Anders warned him. “All that armor—you could be injured in that steel trap and I wouldn’t be able to tell until I got my hands on you.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d be able to tell if someone stabbed me, Anders. The dramatic spurts of blood would be your first clue.” But his expression softened at whatever he read on Anders’ face and he stepped in close again, brushing back a fall of blonde hair. “All right,” Carver agreed. “I’ll do better than try. I _promise_ I’ll come by as soon as I can.”

Anders nuzzled his cheek into the caress and pressed a soft kiss to the center of Carver’s palm. The excited blare of the nobles and clank of armor faded far into the background, and for a moment all he could hear was the slow rise and fall of Carver’s breaths. The way they hitched oh-so subtly at the kiss. The way he swayed toward Anders’ heat, grip subtly tightening.

He could live in this moment and be perfectly content.

 _It’s going to be all right_ , Anders told himself—and if he didn’t truly believe it—if he didn’t truly believe he’d be allowed to have this for more than a few stolen minutes… Well. Over the years, he’d gotten awfully good at lying to himself when he had to.

“All right. Go on,” he said, voice rough. He pressed his lips against Carver’s scarred skin again before he forced himself to let go and step away. The world was fading back into his awareness again, as if a dampening spell had been lifted. “Go put out fires and rescue fair maidens and be a bloody hero. I’ll be at the clinic. I’ll see you there later tonight.”

Carver pulled back, scrubbing his hands through his hair and rubbing at his cheeks as if to chase away the dazed flush. As if Anders had left a physical mark, a claim, clear to anyone who looked at him. (And wasn’t that a wonderfully impractical thought, making his insides glow warm in response even as he wryly shoved it away.) “Later tonight. Don’t get so busy saving every sorry soul that stumbles into Darktown that you forget about me.”

“I won’t forget about you, Carver,” he assured him, amused. As if anyone _could_ forget a Hawke, especially this one. “Now go before I decide to hell with Meredith and leap on you right here.”

“Don’t you dare,” Carver warned, though the corners of his mouth quirked into a smile. He backed away slowly, eyes sweeping up and down Anders’s body as if memorizing him—and Maker, but it took everything he had not to go stumbling back into his arms after all.

 _How did this happen?_ Anders wondered, watching until Carver _finally_ turned on his armored heel and fell into step with the Templars. He stuck out like a sore thumb, handsome and brave and scowling and _wonderful_ and—

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a stuttery breath and collecting his thoughts. The last thing he needed was to swoon like some love-struck maiden _again_. The Arishok was dead, the qunari were leaving, Carver and Aidan were safe—everything was as it should be.

 _Not everything_ , a small part of him—threaded lyrium blue-white and cold as the Fade—whispered. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so terrible if Kirkwall had fallen to the qunari. Maybe its loss would have forced people to pay attention, to _see_ , to—

“And maybe a mage saving the city will be exactly what everyone needs to finally understand,” Anders rebutted quietly, shoulders hunching against that growing core of discontent rising like smoke from the center of his chest.

“Understand what?”

The bright, curious voice was cold water on embers. Anders looked up to meet Merrill’s eyes, blinking away the last threads of Justice’s presence. “Ah, pardon?” he said.

“Sorry!” she said with a quicksilver smile. “Was I not supposed to overhear? I was trying not to listen when you and Carver were being so lovely, but it was either stand here or near Aidan and Fenris, and Fenris started _growling_ at me, so…”

It took everything he had not to facepalm. “All right,” Anders said, moving past Merrill and back into the open. The milling crowd was truly beginning to thin now, herded off by an official-looking Aveline. Varric and Isabella were nowhere to be seen (which was never a good sign) and, yes, Fenris and Aidan _were_ all but tangled up in each other, kissing still as if they were the only people in the world.

“Ugh,” Anders said, wrinkling his nose at them—before wondering: _Wait. Is that what Carver and I…?_

No, he wasn’t going to think about the way he’d dropped his staff and all but leapt on Carver in front of bloody _everyone_ not an hour ago. Better just to focus on what had to be done to see this night through.

“So,” Anders said, loud enough even Aidan had to hear. Maybe that would help move things along. “I guess it’s up to us to make sure the city’s no longer on fire.”

Merrill tipped closer. “Why are you talking so loudly?” she whispered.

Anders sighed, but even he couldn’t be cruel to her tonight—not after all the blessings the Maker had seen fit to give them. He tipped his own head toward hers. “I’m shouting over the siren call of a newly reformed bond,” he said.

A few steps behind them, Aidan laughed. “I heard that, you know,” he said, moving down the steps with Fenris in tow, their fingers threaded together with unselfconscious affection.

Anders watched them, half-expecting a sharp lance of pain at the sight—but there was nothing but relief and joy blooming in his chest. This happily ever after had been a long time coming…and even if he and Fenris never truly came to like each other, he couldn’t begrudge anyone who made Aidan Hawke _glow_ like that.

Besides. He found he had a taste for a slightly more _sour_ brand of Hawke brother, after all. Which he planned to prove as thoroughly and as filthily as he could at the very first opportunity. Maybe when Carver kept his word and he finally got him out of that armor to check him over inch by hard-muscled inch?

Anders slowly began to grin.

“What’s that smile for?” Aidan asked, grinning back. Even Fenris shook his head and looked down toward their feet, lips curving as if he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“Oh, nothing,” Anders said. “I was just thinking, with everything we’ve all been through—what a strange bunch of heroes we are.”

Aidan _laughed_. “We’re not heroes, Anders,” he said, looking up as Varric and Isabella slipped back into the hall. Sebastian was in their wake, somehow looking pristine in his white armor despite everything the city had been through—the bloody ponce. “Didn’t you hear the Knight-Commander? After tonight, we’re bloody _champions._ ”


	2. Carver

Meredith paused relaying orders long enough to fix Carver with a cold, flat stare. “Good of you to join us, Ser Carver.”

Metal clanked against metal as a half-dozen Templars turned as one to look at him—red-faced and sweating and still throwing sparks from Anders’ recent proximity. He blinked at his sudden audience, too turned around inside to really process what was going on. “Yeah,” he said without thinking it through. “I know.”

_I know_? He refused to wince as he met Meredith’s frozen stare, not looking away. That was the best way to deal with her particular brand of bullishness, he’d come to realize—just brazen it through as best you could and never once let her realize she had you on the defensive. Meredith couldn’t stand weakness, but she had a grudging respect for balls of steel.

_Not to mention_ , he thought bitterly, holding his ground despite the uncomfortably stretching silence, _a now-famous brother to exploit_.

Eventually she jerked her head and turned her attention back to Knight-Captain Cullen. “And finally,” she said, voice carrying over the broken square despite the occasional screams still echoing up from the city, “you will lead the effort to round up any mages who escaped during the chaos.” Her lip curled back. “Orsino, it seems, was busy.”

Carver stiffened, a protest on the tip on his tongue. _Orsino helped save all our hides_ , he wanted to remind her. He had led his strongest mages from the Gallows to fight the qunari and stifle the flames consuming Lowtown. If a few of those mages had taken advantage of the confusion to become lost, well, who could truly _blame_ them?

Cullen simply nodded, however, a flicker of firelight catching against the shadows that perpetually ringed his eyes. “Yes, Knight-Commander,” he said.

“Ser Carver,” she said, “will assist you.”

Carver ground his teeth as the ring of Templars looked his way again. Ser Mettin smirked and Ser Thrask’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. Cullen barely reacted. “Yes, Knight-Commander,” Cullen said, as professional as ever.

Meredith began to turn away.

“We may want to widen our search to include the bodies lining the street,” Carver added, unable to help himself. She paused, then turned back, both brows lifting in question. He jerked his chin, refusing to back down. “Just to be thorough. I saw quite a few mages helping the guard, for instance.”

Meredith smiled. It should have warmed up her face, but if anything, her icy glare sharpened all the more. “Very well. See that it’s done,” she said, wintry as any of Aidan’s spells. “And make a list of the _honored dead._ It is good to see that magic can still be relied upon to serve man from time to time.”

Then, parting shot given, she turned and strode away, three Templars hurrying in her wake.

A few more of Carver’s fellows glanced at him and shook their heads, murmuring amongst themselves as they split off into companies to deal with the fires, to fight back any remaining qunari, to bring some sense of order to this broken night. Within minutes, Carver, Cullen, and a young Templar recruit named Maura were left behind. Cullen seemed distracted, turning to look out toward the deepening night, expression miles away, but Maura was staring at him. Silent. Judging? _Whatever._

Carver let out an annoyed puff of breath. “You know you were thinking the same thing,” he challenged.

Cullen shook his head and strode away without a word. There was something a bit _off_ about him tonight, Carver thought, watching him move toward a seemingly random back street with surprising purpose. He’d been distracted almost from the beginning of the siege, strange eddies of emotion making their way across his usually stoic face time and time again. And now, here, he was all but jogging as he arrowed his way through Hightown toward the steps that would lead to the city below. It was almost as if he knew exactly where to go—as if…

Carver shook away the unsettling thoughts and lurched into a clanking jog. No point in getting left behind, he supposed; the mystery would unravel itself with time.

Maura jerked into motion, falling in beside Carver as they followed the Knight-Captain away from the former Viscount’s keep. “You know, _I_ was,” she whispered, tipping her head close. She was young—younger than him, at least, by a year or three—with dark freckles on light brown skin. Her curly hair was kept in a messy knot at the back of her head. “Thinking the same thing, I mean,” she added at his curious glance. “I saw one of them fall trying to keep a qunari sten from running through a family of…”

Maura trailed off, then wet her bottom lip. Her eyes darted toward Cullen’s stiff shoulders before bouncing back to Carver. Her voice lowered even further. “Well. You know. Damn qunari and all.”

“Damn qunari,” he echoed. That seemed safe enough to say, considering. The streets were a ruin of their former selves—not that they’d been particularly pleasant to begin with—rubble and smoldering debris scattered from the occasional barricades. Dead bodies lay sprawled here or there, left sightless and staring up at the darkening sky. Maker.

Carver cleared his throat, eyeing the bodies just long enough to be certain he didn’t recognize the faces. Later, once the living had been tended to, he’d have to come back and help lay these poor fools to rest—preferably before the night was through. It wouldn’t do to leave them baking beneath the blistering Kirkwall sun.

_One thing at a time._

“Do you remember where that was?” Carver asked, refocusing. “Where you saw the mage fall?” There was always the chance they had survived, after all, and needed help. It was a place to start, at least.

She brightened. “Oh! Yes. It was down by the big courtyard not far from your family’s home.” Maura jerked a thumb over her shoulder, back toward the Keep and the old Amell estate. “Should we start there?”

Carver opened his mouth to say yes, then stopped, cutting a glance toward Cullen. Technically, that wasn’t his call to make. “If the Knight-Captain agrees,” he said, “I think it’d be a good idea to check it out. Knight-Captain?”

Cullen kept going, focused on…whatever strange impulse was driving him, not seeming to hear.

“Knight-Captain,” Carver called after him. Then again: “Knight-Captain!”

Nothing.

He moved almost like a man possessed, leading them through the twisting streets. His head was tilted, almost as if he were _listening_ for something. Cries for help? Lingering battle?

Whatever it was, it was drawing Cullen unerringly toward Lowtown—the Docks, if Carver didn’t miss his guess. And that just didn’t make any _sense_. What the void was going on here?

Maura drew closer to Carver’s elbow, brows knit together in worry. “Is the Knight-Captain all right?” she whispered. “He’s been acting…um. Well, the thing is… I have a brother who’d get into all kinds of scrapes. He’d get himself knocked over the head time and again, and it made him all…funny, you know? Maybe the Knight-Captain got knocked one, too.”

Carver didn’t think that was the case. He’d had his own fair share of blows to the skull, and Cullen’s strange ultra-focus didn’t seem to fit with what he remembered (mostly of stumbling after Aidan, cursing, and trying not to wretch everywhere until Anders could get his hands on him.)

Anders. _Anders_ would know what was wrong.

Just as quickly as the thought came, he banished it. Cullen may have been one of the semi-decent ones, but he was still a Templar. There was no way Carver was going to let him close to the people he loved. To Merrill, to Aidan, and especially not to Anders.

No. This particular puzzle was up to him to solve.

“Wait here,” Carver said, then jogged to catch up with the older man. His armor rattled, more than giving him away…and yet Cullen still startled as if Carver had managed to sneak up on him the moment his gauntleted hand closed over the Knight-Captain’s shoulder. “Hey, whoa!” Carver said as the other man swung toward him with surprising force. He stumbled back, hands lifted, frustrated worry and fear going off like Varric’s smoke bombs in his gut. Maker take his hide, why did this always have to happen under _his_ watch?

Cullen shook his head as if to clear it. His usually-sharp eyes were dull and dazed, as if he were a million miles away. “I’ve got to—” he began, voice _wrecked_. He started to pull away again—back toward the docks, as if he were being drawn like iron shavings to a lodestone—but Carver caught his arm before he could break away. This shit was getting too weird to—

“Whoa!” Carver said again, startled, when Cullen tried to wrench away with something very close to a snarl. He just tightened his grip, however, grabbing for Cullen’s other shoulder to keep him anchored in place. This close, he could see the way his eyes didn’t quite focus. Or maybe it was more that Cullen kept looking _past_ him, as if he were seeing something— _hearing_ something—Carver couldn’t. Sweat beaded at his brow and his skin had gone a pasty white.

This? Was _bad_. Cullen looked like he was barely holding himself together, breath coming in labored pants, jaw clenched as if he were willing himself to stay upright. Even still, he was fighting against Carver’s grip, and yeah, no, there was something most definitely not right here. Maybe he’d gotten knocked upside the skull after all. Hit by some kind of spell? _Maker._

“Hey,” Carver said, pitching his voice lower—friendly, even though the two of them had never been particularly close. “Wow, Cullen, you look like a nug’s been pissing in your beer all night. Do you want to sit? Maybe take a minute so I can check your head?”

Cullen tried to shove him off, jaw silently working, but he didn’t say a word.

Great. This was all just…great. “I won’t mess up your hair or anything,” he said, going for what he hoped was Aidan’s best _trust me_ smile. “I mean, hey, wow, that must have…taken you a long time to…to get all…”

Ah, shit, he was utter balls at playing nice. Time for plan B.

Carver sighed and dropped the friendly act. “ _Look_ ,” he said, voice gone waspish, the way his mother used to sound when she’d reached the end of her rope. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’d guess what you really need is to get your ass to a world-class healer. Unfortunately, I don’t exactly carry one around with me.” Which wasn’t exactly true; there had been times he’d had to _literally_ carry Aidan and Anders out of a fight they couldn’t hope to win, one under each arm and giant spiders nipping at his heels. But that was beside the point. “So it looks like you’re stuck with me playing nursemaid. Can you tell me what’s going on here?”

Cullen gave a slight shake of his head, as if to clear it. He looked like death warmed over; it couldn’t possibly have been this bad just ten minutes ago, right? Or was it testament to how distracted Meredith had allowed herself to become that she hadn’t noticed just how compromised her second in command truly was?

Either way, he wasn’t answering.

“Right,” Carver said. “Of course this isn’t going to happen the easy way. Come on, then. If you’re not going to tell me what the void is up, then I’m going to have to sit on you and try to drown you in elfroot until you don’t look like the next stiff breeze’ll—hey!”

He’d barely herded Cullen a step before the other man was wrenching away, one hand going to the hilt of his _sword_ , as if he meant to draw on Carver. Carver stared at him, utterly flummoxed, watching the way Cullen’s unfocused eyes bounced between him and Maura—skin waxy pale, sweat _pouring_ down his face now, upper lip curled back in something like protective rage and worry.

It was all so bizarre…and yet so weirdly _familiar_ at the same time.

“Oh!” Maura gasped, moving to hover just a few away. “Is he all right?”

_Does he bloody well look all right?_ Carver wanted to snap, but he held his tongue, watching Cullen fixedly. The other man was swaying on his feet, clearly favoring his left side as if he had been wounded at the right flank. The thing was, Carver didn’t see anything that could explain the flashes of pain in his eyes—or, even more baffling, the steadily rising panic.

Cullen Rutherford was a Templar. He was used to fighting through all sorts of injuries, and yet right now he was acting as frightened as any civilian. As if he were somehow himself and not himself, present and yet far away…somewhere down in the Docks, perhaps, curled around a seeping wound and so very, very afraid.

_Ah, bloody void_ , Carver thought, the suspicion hitting him like a punch between the eyes. _What are the fucking odds?_

He held out a hand to Maura, silently ordering her back even as he took a careful step forward. Cullen edged away, fingers curled around his hilt, watching him with flashes of lucidity like summer lightning. His mother used to look like that sometimes, when Father was hurting. She’d tried to describe the sensation to him once—how feeling Father’s pain was ten times worse than experiencing her own—but he hadn’t understood.

How could he? He’d never had a soulmate of his own.

But somehow, despite all the odds—despite anything resembling _common fucking sense_ —it seemed Cullen did. Cullen was some mage’s bounded Voice, and they were out there hurt and afraid and projecting loud enough to send him nearly barking mad with it.

“Fuck,” Carver said feelingly, both hands up, sincerely hating his life. “All right, so, I’m not going to ask how you were dumb enough to bond with a mage while _in the bloody Circle_ right under the nose of one of the most paranoid magic-haters I’ve ever met.” He kept his voice low, so Maura couldn’t overhear. Even so, Cullen’s gaze sharpened as he jerked his head to look at Carver—and yeah, yeah, the silent panic flaring in his eyes was all the confirmation Carver needed.

They were really bloody well screwed now, weren’t they?

He carefully edged forward, keeping his hands up, held very obviously away from his own sword. The city was alive with anguish around them, the terrified ululations of battle given way to the agony of recent defeat. Even if Aidan had won the day up in the Viscount’s palace, how many people had died in the scourge of the city?

_Don’t think about that now_.

“Cullen,” Carver said, voice pitched low. “It’s all right. You can trust me.” He had to give a little, hollow laugh at that. “Maker, out of anyone in the whole bloody Order, believe me when I say I’m the _only_ one you can trust with this.” The ever-present shadows beneath the Knight-Captain’s eyes seemed darker than usual, blooming violet as his gaze focused and hazed, focused and hazed—as if his thoughts were bouncing wildly between the tension of this moment and fear for the unknown mage, curled up tight in some forgotten corner of the Docks. Dying. _Dying_.

Maker. No. Carver had seen more than his fair share of bonded pairs shattering apart in one lifetime; he wasn’t about to stand here and watch as Cullen’s unexpected other half faded away.

“Trust me,” Carver said, throwing the weight of that conviction into his voice. He reached out slowly— _slowly_ —and dropped his hand on Cullen’s shoulder. Cullen’s fist tightened around the hilt of his sword, but miracle of miracles, he didn’t draw it. “Let me help you save…whoever it is. All right?”

Cullen looked at him, something stark and terrible in his expression. He nodded once, sharply…and let his hand drop from his sword as reason won over fear.

Carver allowed himself a moment to relax his shoulders. Cullen was a dangerous man when he had full possession of his faculties; driven into a blind panic, he could… Well, best not to think about that. “Ser Maura!” he called instead, grip tight on the cool metal of Cullen’s plate.

“Ser!” she said, stepping closer.

He didn’t look over at her, unwilling to break the fragile connection he’d forged with Cullen. “I’m going to take the Knight-Captain to get some help,” he said—not quite lying. “Will you be all right on your own?”

She only hesitated a moment. “Yes, Ser,” she said. “I can continue the search just fine by myself.”

“Good,” he said. It might even be better. With fewer eyes scouring the city, there would be more chances for mages to escape if they wanted—and Carver wouldn’t be forced to decide whether he dared look the other way. “Start with the one you mentioned, and work your way through Hightown. We’ll be—”

Cullen twitched beneath his hold, attention snapping back toward the Docks and face blanching so pale it was a wonder he was still on his feet. Shit, okay, they needed to go. _Now._

“—around,” Carver finished vaguely, tossing off a salute before practically pushing Cullen toward the steps. Cullen didn’t need telling twice; he was off like a shot, arrowing through the city streets as if following a map marked with blood, Carver jogging to keep up.

One turn, two, left Maura and the Keep and eventually all of Hightown behind them. Smoldering barricades blocked off streets here or there, but Cullen skated around them with a single-minded focus that was all too familiar. _How_ , Carver found himself wondering, watching Cullen out of the corner of his eyes, _have I missed the signs all this time? How long has this been going on?_

“You’re going to owe me one hell of an explanation later,” Carver warned. The look Cullen shot him was dark—almost threatening—but Carver just brushed it off with a sour laugh. “Don’t worry; I’m not likely to tell anyone. Especially since I plan on dragging you _both_ to the Darktown healer to get you patched up while we sort through all this mess. Mutually assured destruction and all that.”

Cullen wet his lower lip, some of that familiar focus back. Whatever agony his mage was in, it was manageable enough that he could still speak; that was something, at least. “You know where the Darktown healer is?”

Carver snorted and picked up speed, following just a step or two behind the older man as they raced through Lowtown. “Cullen,” he said, utterly dry, “you would be bloody amazed at the things I know. I—Oh,” he added, skidding to a stop as they reached the steps that led down into the docks. He’d passed this way coming from the Gallows, but that had been what felt like hours ago, near the start of the scourge. Now, here, everything was…

_A husk_. A burnt-out shell of itself, the empty qunari compound littered with fallen spears and blood and _bodies_ , fuck. Warehouses were still merrily alight, flames licking up toward the lowering grey sky, and all around came desperate cries for help.

“Aria,” Cullen breathed, frozen there beside him—eyes locked on one of those burning buildings butted up right along the waterfront. True fear clear on his face. Then he let out a curse and practically threw himself down the steps, ignoring Carver’s cry to _wait, wait_ ; too filled with terror to be reasonable, too lost in the craziness that bloody bonds seemed destined to create to think his way through the obvious death trap.

The ceiling was burning bright and beams were beginning to creak and fall. Smoke poured from the busted windows, and there was nothing but death for the unwary inside.

Death…and, apparently, a mage girl named Aria.

“Well,” Carver said feelingly, watching as the normally level-headed Knight-Captain flung himself through the broken door and into the burning building with not a single care for his own well-being. “… _fuck._ ”

Then, gritting his teeth against the hell he knew was waiting, Carver hurried down the steps and followed Cullen inside.


	3. Cullen

He couldn’t bloody think.

That was the worst of it—the pressure against his skull, blinding starbursts of fear and pain and regret rattling his thoughts until he wanted to grip his head and howl. He had no idea how he kept it together through the Arishok battle and the immediate aftermath. He was beginning to suspect he may have begun to crack somewhere along the way, unraveling piece by piece as he felt the heat of invisible flames against his skin and heard the ragged breaths of—

 _Aria_.

Cullen grit his teeth and barreled toward the burning door, throwing up his shield at the last moment. He crashed into its wide face, sending a shower of sparks and twisted metal joinings scattering across the entryway. The walls were alive, flame licking its way up toward the pitch-black ceiling: roiling clouds of smoke hung heavy there, blotting out the burning roof. Only the occasional falling beam and that inescapable _roar_ gave any warning of the terrible danger they were in.

The warehouse was being slowly consumed.

He sucked in a breath, then gagged on the taste, coughing. One hand lifted to cover his mouth, and he could taste blood on his tongue. He could feel the phantom ache in his side going terrifyingly dull with each breath. It had been sharp as a blade at first, but now, Maker, there was so much blood—

 _No_ , he thought, shoving that drifting awareness away; drowning the gibbering fear that was all him, rattling through his body like dice. A bloody game of chance, and Aria’s life hanging in the balance. _You will control yourself._

**_Cullen._ **

It was more a feeling than a word, but he turned toward it instinctively, heart tripping in his chest. There was a curse from behind him as Carver Hawke followed him into the inferno, and not far away Aria was lifting her head, hope and worry for his safety flickering inside her. He couldn’t see her, and yet he _could_. He could always see her so bloody clearly.

“This way,” Cullen said, moving toward the wall of flame. It was disorienting, the room’s shape lost in black smoke and cackling fire, and yet he didn’t feel a moment of doubt. She may as well have tied a silver string around his heart for all that she was tugging him straight toward her.

“Bloody…fucking…madness…” Carver was muttering behind him, but he _followed_ all the same, his own shield up to protect himself from falling debris, sparks littering the ground with each groan of the eaves. “Bloody…fucking… _Voices_.”

He just grit his teeth and pressed on. He felt more than saw the innermost doorway: wreathed as it was in flame, it bled into the wall. He had to shove through its reaching fingers, aware of the plate of his armor heating dangerously. It hissed—or was that Carver?—and caught against leather greaves. The burn was nearly welcome. At least now he could push past the growing horror Aria was feeling and focus on wending his way through the inferno of the main room to save her.

It was like any other warehouse here in the docks, its ceiling high and arched, twin stairways on either side of the main open space leading up to a walkway and more rooms deeper in; rickety docks thrust out into brackish water, an old rolling gate down to bar the way into the harbor. There were twisted metal beams already black with soot, and something that looked like a massive cauldron to the left of the vestibule door.

In the center of the room, glowing bright even in the midst of billowing smoke, shone the pure blue of a barrier.

_There. There, Maker’s breath, there._

“This way,” he tried to call back to Carver, making his way straight toward the glimmer of the spell. It was like fairy fire in the gloom—like all those old wives’ tales from Honnleath he’d never let himself believe—and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the flash of remembered horror. Screams in the distances and voices in the dark; a glowing blue shell closing like a fist around him as the demon laughter skittered over bone.

_No._

He shoved the memory aside and dropped his shield and sword into soot-streaked earth, reaching up to rip at the smoldering straps of his armor. They snapped easily, breastplate cracking open and clattering behind him, followed by one gauntlet after the other. _Thud. Thud._ They echoed the erratic race of his pulse as he shed the heating metal, knowing it might protect him, but it would hurt her more.

And no matter what she had done to him, what she had the power to do to him still, he could never seem to bring himself to actively wish her harm.

“Aria,” Cullen said, loud over the crack of a beam. He could feel the hum of magic in the air, flickering as she fought to hold on. It was insane that her strength filled him with so much pride. “ _Aria!_ ”

“… _don’t_ …”

The word was all but lost under the roar of flames, the screech of twisting metal as the foundry bits melted in on themselves. But, Maker, he would know that voice anywhere. Cullen ripped away the last of his armor, leaving him in padded underarmor and his boots—vulnerable, exposed, but at least not a danger to the pale-faced mage who was pushing herself up onto her elbow. Long red hair tumbled around her in mimicry of the flames dancing above, and there were tear tracks bisecting the soot streaking her cheeks. The ground around Aria was sodden with—with _blood_ , Maker’s breath, so much blood—and the silver-blue barrier visibly pulsed at the sight of him.

Even now, she looked so beautiful.

“…what are you… _doing_ …” Aria tried to say, a terrible hissing wheeze to her voice.

 _Cracked ribs_ , a quiet part of Cullen noted, even as he stepped through the barrier, its edges kissing his skin. _Gut wound. This is bad._ He crouched down next to her, taking in her injuries in one critical pass. The light blue of her robe had gone violet in places, blood weighing down the ends. Not just a gut wound, then. Leg? Both legs? There wasn’t time to check.

He had one bottle of elfoot left after the qunari scourge. It wouldn’t heal her completely, but thank the Maker it would be enough to stem the tide until he could get her to safety. Cullen reached into his pouch for it, usually so-very-steady, so-very- _dependable_ hands trembling as he unstoppered it and pressed it to her mouth.

He jerked his gaze up when she caught his arm, feeling the instant connection flaring between them. For once, neither of them pulled away. “You…have to… _go_ ,” she said. She didn’t drink.

 _Not without you_ , he might have replied, if he were a more gallant man. Perhaps he still would have managed, if they had met before the fall of Kinloch and all the twisting, horrible things it had done to the naïve young farmer’s boy who’d been stationed there. Instead he grit his teeth and pressed the vial against her lips until she drank, then looked for the best way to gather her up into his arms without hurting her—feeling awkward and wooden and hurt, deep inside himself. Funny, how every time he was near her, he felt both healed and flayed alive. “No,” Cullen said, voice gritty with conflicting emotion. And, “Not until you’re back in the Gallows where you belong.”

He didn’t mean it like it sounded—at least, he didn’t think he did—but Aria flinched and looked away, dropping her hand from his arm. That warm coal of connection, that sense of _rightness_ in the midst of all this wrong, died instantly.

Bloody void take them both anyway.

Cullen started to lift her, taking her weight easily, when Aria suddenly clutched at his shoulder and cried out. He froze, terrified he was hurting her—but her wide hazel eyes were pinned on the far wall.

He didn’t get a chance to adjust before the first spell came slinging at them, hitting the face of her barrier with a warning electric hum. A golden tracery of veins spread across the protective bubble, and he swore he could _feel_ the lightning at the back of his teeth. A few paces away, Carver cursed and jolted back, shield lifting toward the new threat.

 _Mages_. A trio of them—more?—moving along the far walkway. One of them had her staff out and pointed right at him, the lightning spell still sparking between her fingers. “You’ll not take us back, _Templar!_ ” she shouted over the roar of the fire. “We’ll die first.”

“You’ll die if you stay here,” Carver called back. He moved in a wide half-circle away from Aria and Cullen, drawing attention—and distinctly unfriendly fire—away from them. “This place is about to come down around our heads.”

She scoffed. “Better to see you buried than live fearing your sword in my back.” A fourth mage moved along the stairwell, staff grasped between white-knuckled fingers. A fifth moved to stand beside the first. “You will never stop coming for us. You will never let us _be_.”

“Cullen,” Aria said, voice a little stronger from the elfroot—or perhaps as if she were soaking in his presence. The bond at work? Perhaps. “You have to go. They’re going to—”

He rose with her cradled in his arms, mentally judging the distance to his sword. To the door. To the barred-off docks, where at least they would be safe from the flames. They were sorely outnumbered and quickly running out of time of do anything at all. For once, Cullen didn’t even care about doing his duty: let the mages escape, let them flee the city, let them be free of Meredith. Fine, right, _good_. That didn’t matter.

“You were sent to drag us back!” one of the scared mages called.

Carver took a step farther, further drawing their attention. “I’m here to help you,” he claimed—so serious, so self-assured, that _Cullen_ almost believed him. Except…

“Not in that armor you’re not,” the first woman sneered and pointed her staff right at him.

Aria twisted in Cullen’s arms, struggling free even as he fought to keep her close. “Stop!” she called, lifting a hand. A bright light burst from her fingertips at the exact moment the spell was unleashed, the two exploding on contact. Cullen jerked an arm up to shield his eyes, seeing in the negative space behind his lids Carver flying back at the terrible impact; Aria staggering, hand still uplifted; the ceiling peeling back in angry slashing shards of metal and jagged wood as the sheer impact near ripped the building in half.

The sound was so deafening that in the aftermath, there _was_ no sound—only a faint, distant ringing, growing louder and louder with each shocked pant of his breath.

Cullen lifted his head and blinked open his eyes, only vaguely aware that somewhere along the way he’d been blasted back too. The scorched earth was hot beneath his fingertips, sparks raining down to sear his skin as he bit back a groan and rolled over. A coil of red hair brushed his knuckles and he turned toward Aria blindly, blinking away the double-vision even as the ringing in his ears coalesced into…into _screams_.

 _The mages_ , he thought, slinging an arm around her waist and dragging her near, tucked half-beneath the meager shelter of his body as he looked back toward where the newly freed apostates had stood. But he couldn’t see them—he couldn’t see _anything_ but the huge burning beam that had fallen as the roof was blown apart. It formed a barrier between them and immediate danger, but it also…

…it also blocked them from the exit, bloody void, and, “Where are you going?” Cullen snapped, too rattled to control the sharpness in his voice as Aria wriggled out from beneath the shelter of his body.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, looking like a wild thing with that long snarl of red hair and black soot streaking her face. “Ser Carver,” she said, crawling up onto her knees—and almost instantly collapsing, arms crumbling beneath her the moment she tried to take her own weight.

Whatever renewed strength she had gained wasn’t quite enough to counteract the wound at her side or the sheer show of power she’d just exhibited (enough, more than enough, to earn the brand should Meredith so much as _suspect,_ Maker.) She gave a hissing breath and struggled as if to push herself up again, unwilling as ever to give up.

Cullen dragged himself to his feet, casting a quick glance toward the threatening ceiling. Thick black smoke poured through the new opening, and smaller beams creaked and cracked in warning, chunks of metal falling like meteors around them. _Fuck._ “We have to go,” he said. The Templar shield and sword were lost somewhere in the inferno. Meredith would— But no, that didn’t matter.

“Ser Carver was somewhere near the crash,” Aria insisted, struggling up—this time with his help, arms going around her when her legs threatened to give out. Still, she fought against him, pushing him aside when he would have swept her in his arms again. “We’ve got to help him.”

“I’ll come back for him,” Cullen promised, barely caring that it was a death sentence to leave Carver here. He only had one focus now. “Once I get you somewhere safe.”

She made a strangled noise of frustration, fierce and anxious and beautiful even as she fought him. “He’ll die—you know he will. We are wasting _time_ ,” Aria said, a bite to her words. “I can use Force magic to clear the debris if you just _help_ me.”

She thrust out a hand to him, turning to face him down—tall and kissed by flame and like every dream (every nightmare) he’d had since the fall of the Circle. He could feel himself cringing back from her as the very real fire backlit her the way it sometimes did in his memories: on his knees at Kinloch, hearing nothing but death all around, a demon wearing a then-stranger’s face, tumbling red hair tickling his cheek as she leaned forward to whisper: _But all men break eventually_.

Cullen sucked in a ragged breath, caught somewhere between that past and this present, and spoke without fully conscious thought: “ ** _Silence._** ”

The spell hit Aria hard, knocking her back three stumbling steps as his Templar abilities locked around her mana, sealing it off. She gave a wordless cry, staring at her fingers for a second (as if a spell had been shivering there, ready to cast) before she jerked her head up to stare at him with wide, betrayed eyes.

And oh, oh he wanted to call it back; he wanted the power to send time tumbling head over heels until before the moment he’d made that horrible, impulsive, unforgiveable decision. But he had no power but the power he was exerting over _her_ , and even if he let go now (which he did, at once, everything inside him scalded raw and dark and terrible) it wouldn’t matter. The Silence lingered on her, its fingers around her throat, its chains about her wrists.

Like the trigger of some unseen trap, Aria’s eyes snapped down to the floor between them, head bowed, shoulders tense. The _obedient Circle mage_ , and fuck, fuck, he’d never hated himself more.

Cullen dragged a hand over his mouth, shaken and shaking, and it was only a low moan drifting from darkness that had him pushing through the tense horror of the moment. He swallowed and looked around, stepping past Aria to sweep his gaze about the room. The whole warehouse was ablaze now, smoke filling his lungs with each breath, hardly anything left of the walls and ceiling now. If the mages had lingered, they had to all be dead by now—consumed. Only the far end of the warehouse where two ramshackle docks thrust out into murky pier water was safe.

“Go to the water, Ar…” He couldn’t bring himself to say her name. Not now. Not after what he’d just done. “I’ll bring Ser Carver.”

He didn’t have to look to see if she listened. He could _feel_ her retreating, the blistering cold of her tightly controlled emotions so at odds with her usual warmth. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, hating himself, hating everything that had happened to them to make them reach a place where he could do something like that to someone he…

To the woman he…

“… _fuck_ ,” he breathed, and forced himself to push aside his spiraling thoughts. He stumbled into the choking darkness instead, black soot and glowing red embers swallowing him whole: a hellscape, its heat all but searing flesh from bone. “Carver!” Cullen called, only to choke and cough on the word. He covered his mouth with the bend of his arm, eyes watering.

Overhead, another beam shifted, screamed. A wall of fire crashed with a cry that sounded nearly human. He flinched away from it, mentally scrambling for that sense of Aria in the back of his mind: safe, safe, thank the Maker she was still safe. And beyond the icy wall of her self-control, hurt and angry and as anxious for him as he was for her, no matter how much she wished she had the simple luxury of hating him.

 _I know_ , Cullen thought, searching through the rubble, knowing that he would be done and all three of them safely out if he had only kept the memory of those demon-whispers from his mind and allowed Aria to bloody help. _I understand. Maker’s breath, do I understand._

He thought he spotted a glint of dulled silver in the dim. Blinded, he turned, stumbled, foot scraping over the buckled metal of a Templar shield. _Carver_. Cullen dropped to his hands and knees, tears streaming down his sooty cheeks from the sting of smoke. The heavy clouds were lighter toward the ground, and he spotted an outflung arm several yards away, the fingers streaked with blood and curled in helplessly toward the palm.

Dead?

_Maker’s breath, no._

Cullen sucked in as deep a breath as he could manage, coughing against the sting in his lungs, and made his way to where Carver lay in a growing pool of blood. His head was turned away, dark hair matted wet and sparks hissing against his skin as they fell like snowflakes around them. One of the beams had made it through Aria’s barrier, half-broken over the metal shell of Carver’s armor. Pinning him in place.

“I’m so bloody sorry,” Cullen murmured, mostly to himself, as he reached for the smoldering beam. He hissed as it burned his bare palms, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and put his shoulder into it, shoving the charred wood aside. It creaked and groaned—or was that what remained of the ceiling threatening to cave in on them?—but he did his best to ignore it, freeing Carver as quickly as he could manage.

It didn’t take long before his hands were slick with blood. It was pouring from the joins of the heavy plate, bubbling up from— _Fuck._

Cullen hesitated, staring at the center of the chestplate, where the Templar sword had been etched into steel. It had been skewered in the initial blast, a spike of shrapnel driven in deep; heavy red-black blood bubbled sluggishly up between the jagged edges of the rent armor to paint the charred shell in garish streaks.

There was no doubt in his mind that if he removed the twisted metal, Carver Hawke would die. But if he _left_ it, would he have the strength to drag him to safety? Would he be able to save all three of them before the warehouse collapsed under the weight of the hungry flames? Was he strong enough to do this?

 _But all men break eventually_ , the demon’s memory whispered in his ear, and Cullen set his teeth against the reflexive tightening of his muscles, forcing his badly burned hands to fumble over the latches and joins keeping Carver’s plate mail in place.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought grimly, ripping aside greaves, pauldrons, but keeping the skewered chestplate in place. _But not today._

Carver twitched and quietly moaned as Cullen threw aside his left pauldron before grabbing him by the pits. The other man’s face was streaked with blood and soot, pocks of burns a stark contrast as a rain of sparks fell around them. He was _heavy_ , the steel chestplate adding to his stocky build, and Cullen winced at the dark smear of blood they left in their wake as he dragged an unconscious Carver toward the waterline.

Slow. Too bloody slow, each step earned as his own muscles screamed and the white-hot pain in his burned hands throbbed and his lungs fought to seize against the black smoke filling them with every heaving breath. He fought to keep his own footing as he pulled his fallen brother to relative safety, the warehouse ceiling cracking and falling in nightmarish streaks of flame.

 _Don’t look up_ , Cullen told himself, the back of his neck prickling with sweat as just above them, the buckled ceiling gave a warning groan. _Just keep moving._ _Just keep—_

He startled at movement barely seen out of the corner of his eye, jerking away from the perceived threat emerging from the billowing smoke. Aria froze as if she expected him to strike out at her (and Maker, _Maker_ , was there no end to the hell they brought each other?) hazel eyes locked on his, one hand outstretched.

Cullen opened his mouth to say something—though Andraste take him, he had no idea what—but Aria simply shook her head and moved in to take one of Carver’s bloody hands. She set her jaw as if she expected Cullen to snarl at her to let go, shoulders hunched beneath the waterfall of red hair: determined to fight to the end.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say—wanted to beg—but really, there came a point where they’d said those words so often they didn’t mean anything anymore. So instead he let Aria take Carver’s left hand as he took his right, and together they pulled him to the safety of the docks just as the warehouse ceiling finished collapsing in on itself.

The whole world was a confusing ravage of flames and heat and hissing water butting up against his calves as they dragged Carver deeper in. Neither of them spoke (neither had to) as they worked together to carefully roll the critically injured man into one of the flat-bottomed boats still bobbing by the jutting fingers of the docks. It sank a little under Carver’s weight, the old wood warped and unaccustomed to Templar steel.

He yanked the rope that had bound it to the docks free, pushing the boat out toward more open water. The corrugated doors had been yanked open, he saw—Aria’s work—and the Kirkwall dockyards were wide open and waiting for them. There were other warehouses alight in the distance, black smoke spiraling up up up toward the sky, but nothing felt as wonderfully pure as the first gulp of clean air, legs kicking as he helped guide the small barge out to safety.

Behind them, the ruined warehouse creaked and screamed and groaned as if some wild beast caught in a death spiral. Aria glanced once over her shoulder, pale beneath the streaks of soot, bloody fingers clasped against the rotting sides of the little barge as she helped swim it to the shore.

Cullen cleared his throat, bobbing at the other side of the boat. “You should—” he began, voice rusty with smoke. He wasn’t even sure what he meant to say. _You should get on the boat with Carver? You should swim to shore and make a break for freedom while you can?_

She shot him a quick look before just as quickly turning away. “I grew up in the Marches,” she said, her own voice near-unrecognizable. Raw and husky and…hurt. His fault; all his fault. “Before I came here, I spent every day by the Waking Sea. No doubt I can swim better than you.”

“No doubt,” he said quietly, and didn’t try to say more. Instead, he focused on marshalling his strength as they guided the boat toward the shore, a river of blood left in their wake.

There was a hubbub on the edge of the docks just as they reached shore, a small knot of battle wrapping up. Cullen spotted a spurt of green-black magic coil high into the air and thought about insisting they find a new place to land…until the mage turned with a satisfied smile and he saw her face.

Big, limpid eyes. Dalish tattoos. One of Hawke’s, he thought—Merrill?

“By the _Maker_!” the man at her side gasped, lowering his bow as he spotted them. Sebastian Vael quickly slung it over his shoulder and vaulted over the fallen qunari, its chest riddled with a forest of arrows.

Merrill tilted her head at his cry, curious, but her question died on a horrified gasp when she spotted the grisly offering Cullen and Aria were so carefully guiding between them, blood pooling in a growing halo about his frozen form. “Oh,” she said, hand jerking up to cover her mouth, blood-flecked cheeks gone pale. “Oh _Carver_.”

And, gaze narrowing in on Cullen, fingers curling tight about her staff: “What did you _do_ to him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm torn between an Aria POV or a Merrill POV next. I may go Aria, because she has the emotional weight right now...and I find Merrill ridiculously difficult to write. But THEN prepare yourselves for some good old-fashioned Canders hurt/comfort.


	4. Aria Trevelyan

_She’s going to kill him._

Aria reacted to the fury in the other woman’s eyes without thinking, throwing up a hand—instinctively reaching for a barrier—before the Dalish mage could act. The pain of slamming against Cullen’s Silence spell was like the lash of a whip, but she grit her teeth against the burn. No time for that now.

“Stop!” she said instead, voice rough with smoke, but cold, so cold. There was the bite of command there, of strength: that old Trevelyan steel giving her the semblance of power. Funny that even after so long in the Circle, stripped of everything she had ever been, she could still sound the proper noble when she had no other choice.

Whatever—it worked, at least temporarily. The man froze mid-step at the ringing authority in her voice, bright blue eyes turning on her. Even Cullen looked over, visibly startled, lost. Maker, he had no idea what he was doing, did he? They were both fumbling around blind here.

The mage kept her fingers curled tight around her stave, Aria noticed, green-black energy leaping between her fingers. She wasn’t the sort to be easily cowed. _Danger,_ a small part of Aria whispered, wending about the grudging respect. _Danger, danger._ “What have you done to him?” the woman demanded, lilting voice rough with fear and fury.

“He needs a healer.” Aria lowered her hand to Ser Carver’s shoulder, deliberately drawing the woman’s eyes away from his wounds—and from Cullen. “There was an accident. He came to my rescue. I was trapped, and he saved me, but the roof collapsed before we could get out. Ser Cullen dragged him free—please,” she added, letting a little of her own desperation show. “Help us get him to safety.”

“Aria,” Cullen began, as if he meant to correct her—meant to share the whole bloody truth of what happened, and damn his stupid honorable hide anyway—but he quieted at the look she shot him. Thank the Maker. He had too much trust in the usual order of things. She wondered if he even realized just how much danger he was in. The city was burning, the mages were free, and until Meredith brought her iron fist down again, the Templar sigil was more bullseye than brand. And _this_ woman didn’t seem like the sort to meekly swallow a pat _he died doing his duty._

“We did everything we could,” Aria said, meeting her eyes. The man was moving again, slowly, crouching by the edge of the docks as the three of them floated just out of reach. “But we need your help.”

“Merrill,” the man said in his thick brogue.

There was a tense moment. Then: “We’ll need to get him to Anders.” The woman—Merrill—dropped her stave to her side, and with it, the spell shivering there. The moment of danger passed. “Sebastian, can you—”

“Let me,” Cullen said, very nearly undoing everything. He began to lift Carver, the small barge dipping under their weight as a blood-slick, lifeless hand dropped into the water.

“Elfroot,” Aria blurted. She grabbed the edge of the creaking barge to steady it, willing Merrill’s attention away from Cullen-and-Ser-Carver again. “We ran out—do either of you have any we could give him?”

Merrill’s eyes locked on the twisting metal piercing the heart of the breastplate, skewering the Templar sigil. There were tears shining in her eyes, and her hands had curled around her staff again…but when she looked at Aria, the animosity she feared had fled. It seemed they truly were out of any danger now—the shock of fury had waned, replaced by horrified fear for her friend. “No,” she said as Cullen and Sebastian carefully lifted Ser Carver to the shore. “That is, we did, but… If I had _known_ …”

Aria pushed the empty barge away, back toward the flaming line of warehouses, the utter husked-out shell of the docks. The screams had more or less quieted, but the city was still in full route, sparks swirling up into a choked black sky. “I’ve heard whispers of a healer in Darktown,” she said as she pulled herself out of the water. “Back in the Circle. If we can find him…”

“Yes,” Merrill said quickly. She tucked away her staff and came to offer Aria a hand, pulling her to her feet with surprising strength. “Anders. If we—”

Then her gaze ticked over to Cullen again, and she went silent.

_Tread carefully_ , Aria reminded herself, sensing the shifting sand beneath her feet. Men like Cullen were not well-loved by women like Merrill. Men like Cullen _shouldn’t_ have been well-loved by women like Aria; by all rights, she should be glaring down at him, thinking just how much she longed for one less power-mad Templar in the world.

He knew too much. He had _seen_ too much, the tail end of Merrill’s spell too obvious to miss. There needed to be a shift of power here, before the other woman realized how much simpler her life would be if Cullen was no longer around to hold what he had seen over her.

“It’s all right,” she said, pitched low for Merrill’s ears alone. “My Voice and I would never turn on you or the Darktown healer.”

Merrill startled, whipping around to stare at her, then Cullen. “Oh!” she said. Then again, “ _Oh_ ,” as the implication sank in.

In one sentence, the threat Cullen represented was effectively neutralized…and the irony of it all was not lost on Aria. “Can you lead us to him?” she asked as Cullen and Sebastian carefully hoisted Ser Carver between them. They’d fashioned a stretcher of sorts, but it was clear it wouldn’t hold for long—and Ser Carver was growing paler and paler with each passing moment. They were running out of time.

“Yes,” Merrill said, and instantly skirted around the trio on her way to a crumbling stairway tucked well back into the docks. “This way,” she instructed, her bare feet slapping against stone. “Come, please, quickly.”

Cullen shot Aria a questioning look, but all she could do was nod and hope he could manage to trust her for once. To his credit, he only hesitated a moment before nodding back and beginning to move, navigating the stretcher with Sebastian around tight corners. Aria took up the rear, keeping her eyes peeled for incoming trouble.

The night was far from quiet, but for now, they seemed to be in the clear.

“This way,” Merrill said again, leading them down down through the twists and turns of Darktown as fast as they could manage. Aria stuck close to the group but let her eyes wander as they passed through a cramped tunnel and into a warren of dusty rooms. For all that she’d lived in Kirkwall since she was a child, she’d never seen much of it. Considering her history, she was lucky Meredith allowed her to survive intact: being granted permission to leave the Circle—to even go so far as the Gallows courtyard—was out of the question. This place with its mildewed walls and rusted chains was like a whole new world. She only wished she was seeing it under better circumstances.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and tensed, glancing over. A boy of about eight years, maybe ten, sat crouched back in the shadows. He had big dark eyes and a tumble of black hair, dirt smudging up his cheeks. He watched them with a canny sort of focus that dulled the moment her eyes fell on him.

_He's watching us_ , Aria thought, a shiver working its way down her spine as she looked away. _But why?_

A soft coo drifted from behind them; it was caught and echoed from somewhere up ahead, toward the rafters. Aria glanced up and caught the barest flash of a shadow as a little girl dressed in rags scurried across a beam and disappeared.

“Cullen,” she murmured, hurrying her pace. She reached up to touch his back, only to freeze the moment before contact—as always, as ever with them. _Maker_ , but she hated the way her own heart seemed at war with itself, freezing and burning by turns.

She snatched her hand away as he glanced over his shoulder at her. Even worse than being indecisive was being _caught_. “We’re being shadowed,” she said in a low voice, using the aborted gesture to push back the wet tangle of her hair.

“It’s all right,” Sebastian said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “The children are in a friend’s employ; they keep watch on Anders. Warn him of any trouble on its way.”

“Oh,” Aria said, for want of something better. “Good.” She supposed it _was_ good. If this was the man whispered about in the Gallows, then it was best for everyone if he was kept safely tucked away from the danger of discovery. There had been escape attempts for as long as Aria could remember—mages desperate to cross the seas and find their way home—but scarce few had been successful until the Darktown mage came into their lives. Now, with him, there was hope.

And hope was such a fragile thing.

The rest of their desperate journey into the heart of Darktown was silent, save for the creak of old foundations, the murmur of voices, and the distant sound of the city in ruins. It all seemed so far away, and yet every time Aria dropped her gaze and spotted the trail of blood they were leaving in their wake, she was reminded anew how desperate their circumstances were.

If Ser Carver did not survive…

But no. She couldn’t think like that; there was no point in courting disaster. She could only be ready when it found her at last.

Finally, after what felt like a breathless age rushing through the dank darkness, Merrill broke off from their small procession and hurried ahead, toward a rough-hewn wall with two badly-fitted doors. A lantern hung over one, casting a coal of dim light. It streaked shadows across Merrill’s lithe form as she wrest open the doors to make room for the stretcher. “Anders!” she called immediately, voice lifted over the overwhelming din inside.

The infirmary was full to bursting, milling injured and recently healed all but spilling out of the newly opened doors. They clumped in groaning groups along the walls as men and women in dirty aprons checked their burns and cuts and bruises, moving them up or down the makeshift line as needed. Several others (volunteers? Hedge healers?) took the least-injured aside to various stations stocked with half-empty bottles of elfroot, bandages, splints and stitchery. The air smelled heavy with the twin scents of blood and astringent, hot enough to make her shiver in response.

_Maker_ , but it had been a very, very long time since she’d seen so many people together at once. The Circle forbade large gatherings, even of peer groups. It was so quiet, so solitary, so… _orderly_ compared to this heat mirage of wailing children, blood-soaked women, slumped and angry men.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen said, frozen in the doorway and taking in the war zone on a glance.

Merrill didn’t pay it any mind. They may as well have been alone here. “Anders!” she called again, trying to be heard over the maddening din, all but shoving her way inside and beckoning them forward in her wake. One of the volunteers peeled off to join them, springs of red curls escaping her sensible bun as she wove through a knot of muttering men. Merrill ignored them all. “Oh, Dread Wolf take you, _Anders_ , where are you?”

“Hush,” the woman chided, moving past Merrill with a calming touch to her shoulder—as if she knew her well. “And let me see if I can help you. The healer’s tending to a difficult case and mustn’t be—”

But she sucked in a harsh breath when she caught sight of Ser Carver lying still as the grave on the stretcher. He looked worse than when they’d fished him from the water, skin drained a waxy pale, lashes a dark smudge of soot against near bone white. His lips had taken on a bluish tinge, and the blood seeping from his wound had gone dark and brackish. He looked well and truly dead, and Aria couldn’t blame the poor women at all when she took a quick step back and clasped a hand over her chest. “Maker’s _breath_ ,” she said before turning sharply on her heel and rushing to the nearest station. “ _Anders,_ ” she cried, loud, nearly knocking over the unsteady medicine chest, one hand instinctively grabbing for the medic patiently rolling lines of bandages atop the sole free exam table. “Darya, quick, get Anders.”

“But he’s,” the other woman began, turning.

The redhaired medic didn’t give her the chance. She swept her arm across the table, clearing it in a flash; bandages scattered and fell, unspooling like streamers across the dirty hospital floor. Darya gaped at her fellow, gasping, “Anise, what are you—” but Anise was too focused on her task to care.

“Bring him here, quickly,” she called over her shoulder—to Darya, to Sebastian and Cullen…it didn’t matter. All three acted at once, the girl ducking into the milling crowd of injured with a soft cry even as the men carried Ser Carver’s insensate form to the newly cleared table. They lifted him carefully, laid him down even more so, and Aria watched with growing dread at the way Ser Carver’s head lolled to the side. He looked…

Anise leaned in, eyes closed, ear against his parted lips. It felt in that instant as if the whole world held its breath. Then she let out hers in a long rush, straightening. “He lives,” she said, mostly to herself. “For now.”

“Is there elfroot?” Sebastian asked, hovering just past her shoulder. He kept darting anxious glances toward Cullen, then back into the crowd where Darya had gone. Merrill had disappeared into the mass of humanity as well, though Aria couldn’t rightly say when. Everything was happening so far—the whole world seemed to be spinning. She wiped her still-damp sleeve across her brow, dashing away the beads of sweat gathering at her hairline. It felt as if each breath she drew was too thick for her lungs; her throat stung with the copper scent heavy on the air.

“…not enough for him now,” Anise was saying, lining up tools, clean cloth, a basin of water. Her face was drawn as a death’s mask. “The healer is his only hope now. Oh, but he must _hurry_.”

Aria shifted a step back, her heart thundering in her chest. It was so strange, but she wanted to _run_ —to turn on her heel and bolt from the room and the dark memories it seemed determined to dredge up. The night outside was alight with fire and there were cries and moans all around. She remembered this coppery taste on her tongue so well. She remembered the heat and the fear and the sick sense of helpless loss as everyone she had known _died_. Her brothers-in-arms, her only friends, and nothing but a demon wearing a strange woman’s face left to taunt him—her fire-red hair searing hot against his skin as she leaned forward with a wicked smile and—

She sucked in a breath, suddenly back in herself again. Aria could still feel the rising panic, could taste the bile in the back of her throat, but it didn’t have the same power over her anymore: not when she remembered to shield herself from her Voice’s terror. _Cullen_ stood a few steps away, frozen still and staring with nearly-black eyes as Anise prepped for the removal of that twisting spear of metal: blood soaking the floor, blood spattering the walls, blood smeared across desperate faces—everywhere, everywhere.

_Andraste take me, I am so sorry_ , Aria thought, stepping closer. She reached out to take his hand, riding out the full-body jerk that nearly wrenched her arm from its socket. Cullen turned his head to stare down at her, still lost somewhere in memory. She squeezed his fingers and opened herself up as much as she dared, knowing he would still be seeing the demon who had worn her face, knowing there was nothing she could do about that, knowing she had to try anyway.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, voice pitched low for him alone. She gave a little tug, back toward the still-open doors, and he stumbled a step after her. Then another. Then another.

Slowly, by careful degrees, Aria pulled a gradually thawing Cullen out of the madhouse infirmary and into the relative cool quiet of Darktown. Over her Voice’s shoulder, she could just make out the figures moving anxiously around Ser Carver, and she swore she heard a high, desperate cry…but she couldn’t focus on that now. She could only keep her attention on Cullen, tugging him away to safety, giving him space and time to collect his scattered thoughts.

Step by step by step.

Eventually, his cold fingers gave hers a light squeeze and she stopped, letting them come to a stand-still. They were far enough away from the infirmary that it was all like a distant dream; flickering light poured in from the high slitted windows, leaving striations of red-gold across the floor, but everything else was bathed in deep blacks and browns and blues. There was no one around them—nothing but the sounds of their gradually steadying breaths—and Aria let the blessed silence stretch on and on, too afraid of what would happen if she tried to break it.

Would he pull away? Would he _Silence_ her again? Or would he tug her close and press his lips against her hair, shuddering as she felt his heart breaking in slow motion all around them?

Aria closed her eyes and squeezed Cullen’s hand tight; a small part of _her_ broke inside when he squeezed back. _I’m sorry I did this to you_ , she thought, on the heels of a more selfish, _I wish we could be like this all the time._

She could feel the way he softened at her tangled mess of love and regret. Tears burned hot on her lashes, but she was an old pro at refusing to let them fall. “Well,” Aria finally said, breaking the trembling moment before it could go on any longer and lead them deeper into heartache. Things were best if they kept each other at a careful distance; anything else was bound to leave its scars. “I suppose we should go back to the Gallows.”

She may have been the one to harden her heart, but Cullen was the one who let go of her hand. He pulled back, squaring his shoulders and straightening up as if donning invisible armor. “I suppose we should,” he agreed.

It wasn’t as if she expected him to say otherwise. It wasn’t as if she expected him to take her hand again—to draw her into his arms—to brush back her hair and kiss her and say _run away with me_. Those were the foolish dreams of a girl long-dead; they had no place in this terrible, difficult world she and her Voice shared.

And yet Aria couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that she wouldn’t be allowed to pretend, even for a little bit. Or even just…soak in this world she had seen so little of. She was eleven when the fire burst out of her, killing four of her siblings. She was eleven when the Templars came and she was spared the brand only thanks to the dubious power of the Trevelyan name. She could remember the boat that took her from Ostwick and her first glimpse of Kirkwall in the distance, towering statues enough to make her cringe back if she were the sort to show her fear.

That single glimpse was all she’d ever seen until tonight. It would have been nice to… Well, it really _didn’t_ matter.

She fell into step with Cullen, the two of them moving silently away from the infirmary—from Ser Carver—from the single shining lantern and the milling wounded inside. She looked around her as they went, soaking in everything she could and carefully packing the memories away: there was no telling when she’d ever leave the Gallows again.

But when she turned to head up the steps the way they’d come, Cullen reached out to touch her arm.

It was a simple touch—barely a brush of his skin against hers—but it stole her breath and left her shuddering there, frozen in place. She turned her head to look at him, a drying tumble of red hair half-shielding her face like a veil. He let go the moment her eyes were on him and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I was thinking,” Cullen said, before clearing his throat. Down to his underarmor, stripped of all that steel plate that usually separated them, he seemed almost…vulnerable. Someone she would give her life to protect. “Since we are not expected, we could perhaps, ah, take the long way.” He wet his lower lip at the sudden burn of gratitude he could no doubt feel flaring through their bond. “If you wanted.”

Maker, but she loved this man. No matter how much she knew she shouldn’t. “Yes,” Aria said immediately, her own voice suspiciously rough. Even if it just meant an hour outside in the world, it was more than she had ever hoped for. “I…thank you. Cullen.”

He looked away, ears going red. “You’re welcome…Aria.” The way he said her name made her knees weak; it made her want to cry in earnest. Instead she turned toward the path not taken, falling into step with her Voice again—grateful for the silence between them, and the false sense of peace it could bring.


	5. Anders

He’d never forgive himself for not knowing Carver needed him.

For not being _aware._

“All right,” Anders said with a crooked smile, arching his back until he heard the tell-tale _pops_ and _cracks_ of his _mumblemumble_ -years-old spine re-aligning. The infirmary was a madhouse, hordes of the injured poor being shuffled into this group or that depending on the severity of their injuries. Thank the Maker for all the competent assistants Varric had been subtly funneling his way: this was the first disaster in all his years as a healer when he didn’t feel completely in over his head. “Finished. Point me toward where I’m needed next.”

While one of his assistants darted off to bring him his next patient, the boy he’d been healing (multiple roping burns now little more than a line of pink across his cheeks and neck and clavicle) hopped down from the examination table with enviable resiliency. He was _grinning;_ grinning when just a quarter-hour ago he’d been biting down against a wooden dowel to keep from screaming. “It doesn’t hurt at all anymore. Maker’s balls, but you really are something, aren’t you?” he said in a cheerfully flat Denerim drawl.

“ _Tobias_ ,” his (still weeping) father scolded, but he was grinning too as he wrapped one burly arm around his son’s shoulders, squeezing him tight. “Thank the nice Warden for saving your ungrateful hide.”

“My hide’s not ungrateful,” Tobias countered, both arms snaking around his father’s waist. It was funny, Anders mused—any other day and the boy would be pulling away with exaggerated complaints. Near-death certainly had a way of drawing people together. “Here, how’s this: thank you for saving my _really very grateful_ arse, Warden.”

“ _Tobias_ ,” his father scolded again with a laugh.

Anders was already smiling and waving them off. “You’re welcome. Both of you.” There was some sort of disturbance at the clinic door, but Anders barely spared it a glance. Anise would sort it out, whatever it was. “Take care going back. The attack may be over, but the city streets still aren’t safe.”

“Thank you,” the father said, beginning to usher his boy away.

Tobias just shook his head. “We’re not scared,” he promised, with all the confidence of youth. “I’m _really_ strong. Besides, the Champion’s out defending the streets—there’s no _way_ he’d let something happen.”

The Champion? Anders cocked his head, briefly confused, before remembering—ah, yes, _the Champion._ Knickerweasles, but Aidan was going to hate that…and Varric was going to eat it up with a silver spoon. “Right,” Anders said, stepping aside as a frail-looking woman with blood streaking her simple homespun dress was helped over to the abandoned examination table. “Of course. We’re so very lucky the Champion watches over us all.”

The boy didn’t catch the irony lacing his words; more surprisingly, neither did his father, _or_ the pale-faced woman his assistant was helping up onto the table. “From your mouth to the Maker’s ears,” she said, touching her fingers to her lips then her heart. “And Andraste bless him.”

…right. Well. Carver was going to have a _fit_ when he heard about all of this. “Andraste bless him,” Anders said dryly. “Now, let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

And with that, Anders focused on the woman. There were light burns tracing her hands and all the way up her arms, but her real injury was a hastily bandaged wound off her side. He lifted his hands over her, fingertips sparking blue light even as his assistant began cataloguing her various complaints.

“Darya thought we could take care of her ourselves and not bother you about this none,” his assistant was saying, standing just past his shoulder. “But the cut’s deep, and close enough to the gut that I figured it’d be better if you took a look.”

“That was well-considered,” Anders assured her, concentrating on the intricacies of the magic flowing through him—through Justice—beginning to pour into the injured woman. “Gut wounds are difficult and—”

He broke off, startled, as Justice flared to life within him. It was so sudden, so visceral, he very nearly lost control. Anders broke the healing spell on a gasp, dropping his hands to brace his body against the edge of the table. He could _feel_ the shards of spirit energy rippling just beneath the surface, ready to break through the cracks of his skin. Anders squeezed his eyes shut tight and bowed his head at the burn just behind his eyes.

“Anders?” his assistant asked, startled—and there, at nearly the same time, voice ringing with true fear: “ _Anders!”_

“I,” he breathed, knees weak as he grappled back control. Justice breaking free in the middle of this horde…Maker, but it wasn’t even worth thinking about. Not with the way he’d been reacting lately; not with the way he’d started to feel _different_ within the depths of Anders’ chest, as if he really were changing. As if as if as—

He turned, head coming up, sensing it _at last_. Not literally—not the way he’d been able to sense Bethany all those years ago, slipping into cold and still and _quiet_ —but in a subtle shiver working its way down his spine. In a rash of gooseflesh and a sick sinking of his stomach.

 _Something is wrong_ , he thought, just as Merrill shoved her way through the crowd and spotted him.

She looked…she looked _terrible_ , eyes wide and nearly frantic, face dotted with blood. She spun, searching for him, literally pushing people out of her way without bothering to fumble for a charming apology—which, Maker, was enough to have Anders jerking away from his assistant and the poor, confused woman waiting for him to finish his spell. He stumbled, caught himself, pushed his own way through the crowd, that sinking feeling spreading like black oil across water when Merrill turned just in time to spot him.

There were tears on her lashes. There was horror in her face.

 _No_ , he thought, reaching for her even as she reached for him, those cold fingers closing around his own. _No no no._

“Anders,” she breathed, then, horrifyingly: “It’s _Carver_.”

_No._

“Where,” he managed, and that was all—that was _all_ he could say. The word was punched out of him, painful, and his knees didn’t want to keep him upright a _s_ he stumbled along behind her. They broke through the crowd easily, like the prow of a ship through waves, but all Anders could see was a flash of white armor ( _Sebastian, looking drawn_ ), an impression of golden hair and an impossibly straight back ( _Ser Cullen? Maker, a Templar, here in the clinic_ ) and nigh-unshakable Anise looking down at the examination table with something very much like anguish on her narrow face ( _oh no, oh Maker, oh no oh no oh—)_

“Carver,” Anders rasped, pushing his way out of the crowd, frantic. His gaze dropped down to the figure lying so very still on the table, taking in everything in a moment of patchwork horror: the dark smudge of lashes against a shockingly pale face; the trickle of blood painting parted lips red red red; the deathly stillness, as if he’d already long since passed from Anders’ grasp; the twisting spike of metal erupting from his chest, and, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh oh—

He made a noise that didn’t feel human, ripped out of him as if by force. Carver was _so lifeless_ he couldn’t believe he wasn’t already too late, and the terror he’d felt just a few hours ago came rushing back all at once—more real, more visceral, more shockingly debilitating this time because this wasn’t a trick of his recurring nightmares. This was _real_.

And he hadn’t felt a thing.

“ _No_ ,” Merrill said, planting her hands on his back and giving Anders a hard shove. He went stumbling, only then realizing he’d begun to shrink away from the gibbering horror of Carver (Carver Carver Carver _Carver_ ) laid out in death’s repose, so still he might as well have been frozen in layers of ice. “Lose control later; heal him now.”

Her voice was sharp and girded by her own fear, but it was enough to snap Anders out of whatever darkness he’d been ready to throw himself head-first into. He let out a puff of breath and made his way to Carver’s side, hands and feet numb, heart pounding, whole world twisting around on its axis.

Maker. It felt as if an armored fist had taken hold of his heart and was crushing it within the fragile cage of his chest. It felt like he was dying, too, in excruciating slow motion. _Breathe, breathe, breathe._ He managed to reach out with trembling fingers to brush Carver’s hair back from his pale brow. Just a few hours ago, Carver had been laughing and scowling at him, and _oh Maker_.

“Is he…” He couldn’t seem to say more. His voice was rough as jagged glass and he could feel the burn of tears on his lashes, threatening to fall. He’d felt ancient before, but now he felt, just, fuck, so young. A child, holding on to the one thing he loved, certain he’d never be allowed to keep it. ( _It’s dangerous for a mage to love_ , and no no it wasn’t _fair_. He couldn’t go through this twice.)

Anise stepped by his side, lyrium already in hand. “Alive,” she said, her usual clipped no-nonsense voice run ragged too. She knew Carver as well as any of them did; he was around so much, there wasn’t a person in Darktown who didn’t secretly smile in pleasure when his scowling face came into view. “I’ve already fed him enough elfroot to get him stable, but that won’t do any good until we get that thing out of him.”

She glared at the twisting piece of metal as if it were a darkspawn. Anders…Anders could barely bring himself to look at it. He could barely bring himself to keep from collapsing, knees wobbly, heart racing, head spinning. He felt as if he were detaching from his own body, his thoughts racing too quickly for a single one of them to penetrate the growing fog, and this, _this_ was usually when Carver reached out to subtly brush calloused fingers against the small of his back. _This_ was usually when he stepped close enough for Anders to feel his warmth and said something…something…oh, something ridiculously sour and bitchy and wonderful, jolting Anders from his own self-destructive spiral and fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.

“Here,” Merrill said, shoving her staff into Sebastian’s hands. She moved around to the other side of the table, face set into determined lines. Her hands looked small but capable as they curled around the heft of jagged metal, blood staining her fingers; she flicked her gaze up to meet Anders’, expectant. “I will take care of this. _You_ do the rest.” Then, softening back to something closer to her usual expression, she added, “We aren’t losing him, Anders. Now Dread Wolf take you, _focus._ ”

_Focus._

_We aren’t losing him._

Anders sucked in a breath and nodded, blue light circling his fingertips again. He still felt as if he were floating somewhere far outside his own skin, but Merrill’s ferocity was enough to moor him, to give him something to tether himself to as he focused on saving Carver bloody Hawke.

And then—oh, and then, once this was all over—he was going to bundle the little brat up in blankets and refuse to let him leave the bed for _weeks_.

“All right,” Anders said, giving a faint nod. He was dimly aware of Anise stepping beside Merrill, ready to help pull the metal free. He was dimly aware of Sebastian setting aside Merrill’s staff and filling his hands with bottles of elfroot and lyrium. He was dimly aware of the mass of injured and the chaos of the broken city and all the whole world circling around and around and around their heads as he hovered his hands just over Carver’s heart and waited for the right moment.

Anise tightened her grip just above Merrill’s. “Pull with all your strength,” she warned. “I’ve unlatched his armor, so the chestplate should come away with the rest, but if it _doesn’t_ and this thing gets stuck, we’ll be doing more damage before Anders can begin his spell. He can’t heal with all that metal still in his chest, so—”

“I understand,” Merrill said impatiently. “On three. One.” _Oh Maker._ “Two.” _Oh Maker, please._ “Three!” _Please_.

Together they tore the metal spike free, the plate mail resisting for one horrifying second before cracking open and tearing away. It released like a crab’s shell torn asunder, revealing Carver’s unprotected chest and belly, his underarmor soaked in blood, his flesh ripped open and gaping _wide_. Anders froze for a horrified breath, eyes locked on the damage that had been done—blood bubbling out anew, pouring down his barely-moving sides, splashing onto the table, the floor, and—

_Now!_

He jerked forward, entire body ringed in brilliant blue light. He felt the kick of the healing spell lock onto all that damage, all that _hurt_ , spiraling down down down to its farthest point as Anders began to knit the man he loved back together again.

It was a slow, tortuous process, but it felt like mere seconds were passing as he ran his glowing hands over Carver’s pale ( _so pale; too pale; oh Maker, I’m losing him_ ) flesh, pulling deep at the source of his mana. He reached its end after what felt like only a breath, but Sebastian was there to press a glowing bottle into his hands—again and again.

Merrill and Anise cleaned away the blood even as it spilled, keeping the wound as clear as possible as Anders focused on rebuilding Carver piece by piece, knitting torn skin, ripped veins, perforated organs. He sucked in a breath, falling forward against the table under the stain as his mana scraped the ends of its reserves again—but oh, oh yes, Sebastian was there to literally shove the lyrium into his hands, down his throat, keeping him _going_ and _going_.

He was aware of the blood beginning to rush through renewed veins; he was aware of Carver’s skin taking on a healthier tinge, his breaths coming more normally, and yet still he worked. He _healed_ , determined to keep going until he was dragged away. Needing to know he had done everything he could, because he couldn’t go through this again. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, not this time. Not with Carver Hawke.

“Come on,” Anders breathed, trembling all over, wrung up in a way he couldn’t ever remember feeling before. He’d pushed himself to his limits and beyond, Justice churning inside him and every moment a growing agony. “Come on, _come on_ you idiot.”

And then— _Maker_ , then—Carver turned his head and groaned, eyes finally, _finally_ cracking open. “oi,” he muttered, voice small enough to break Anders’ heart. “who you calling idiot?”

The shock of those words—the joy surging inside him, nearly as painful as the fear—was enough to make him lose control of the spell. It fizzled out between his fingers, blue light fading as Anders half-collapsed against the lip of the table, staring at Carver with wide eyes.

He felt completely wrung out and utterly unhinged, fingers visibly trembling as he reached up to cup the scruff of Carver’s cheek. His skin felt warm to the touch, alive, and it was only sheer stubborn willpower that kept Anders from throwing back his head and howling with a wild sort of relief.

The inevitability of loss, of despair, had been diverted for one more day. He would take whatever he bloody well could.

“ _Fuck_ , Carver,” he said, shaken. Anders tried to smile, though even he could tell it was fractured at the edges—dangerously fragmented. He was dimly aware of their friends quietly doing their best to give him space to regroup, but he ignored that, ignored them. Nothing mattered but Carver right now, and oh, _oh_ it felt good to lean close and hear each breath. To slide a hand down to count the beats of his heart. “You took twenty years off my life.”

“well that’s not good,” Carver said, trying to reach up to touch Anders’ hair. He was too weak to do more than vaguely gesture. “you’re already so old you only have a handful left.”

It was a weak attempt at an old joke, but it meant so much—knowing he was alive enough, present enough, himself enough to be able to try made Anders choke on a laughing-sob. He leaned forward in front of everyone and pressed his mouth over Carver’s, swallowing his next words with a sigh. His hand flattened over Carver’s heartbeat and he sent another wave of healing through him, _thrilling_ at the guttering pain he felt, knowing it meant that he was giving Carver everything he had.

 _Take it, take it, it’s yours_ , Anders thought, tasting dried blood and salt water tears and not caring. How could he when Carver was kissing him back, each second bringing more strength to his body as Anders all but upended himself into the man he loved. Given the choice, he’d bleed himself dry just to know Carver would keep breathing.

Of course, Carver being Carver, he didn’t let that go on for long.

“Hey,” he murmured into the kiss, already sounding so much stronger. He reached up to thread his (bloody) fingers through Anders’ hair, tugging him back until he could focus on his face. His dark brows were pinched together, a frown darkening his expression. “You’re not pushing yourself too far, are you?”

 _Yes_ , of course he was, but Anders just laughed. “Only you would be on death’s door worrying about someone else,” he said, sending another pulse of healing through Carver. The damage had been completely undone, but Carver was still so weak. If he just had ten more minutes…

Carver caught Anders’ wrist, frown transmutating into an all-too-familiar scowl. “That was definitely a yes,” he grumbled. “Bloody idiot that you are.”

A calloused thumb brushed oh-so gently across the thrum of Anders’ pulse, undercutting the sharp words, and Anders _melted_. All but literally—his knees finally gave out, head spinning as he collapsed hard against the examination table and began to sink to the floor.

Carver yelped and caught at him, movements sluggish. He was still fast enough to grab a handful of Anders’ robe, keeping him from spilling onto his ass in pools of drying blood. Thankfully, Sebastian and Merrill hadn’t gone far. They jerked around and hurried to help, Merrill petting at Carver’s face and shoulders soothingly, talking a mile a minute even as Sebastian hauled Anders up by the pits.

It wasn’t exactly his most dignified moment. He felt absolutely ridiculous. Limp as a wet rag, sullen as an even wetter cat, yowling in protest even as he couldn’t…manage…to get his feet under him. There was nothing left to keep him upright: it had all been poured into Carver willingly, happily; Andraste’s knickers, he would do it _again_.

Just…maybe he’d take a seat first, next time.

“Oh, void take it, this is ridiculous,” Carver muttered, gently batting Merrill’s hands away. He sat up with obvious effort, making a surprised face at the way his blood-sodden underarmor fell open around his newly-healed chest in rags. Anders watched, heart twisting in response as Carver pushed aside the rent fabric and ran his fingertips across what had to be still-sensitive skin; the edges of the wound were still a faint starburst of pink, showing all too clearly where he’d been pinned to the ground by a spike of twisted metal, dead but for the grace of the Maker.

Carver wet his bottom lip, then looked up. Whatever he’d been about to say was gone, bled away by the shock of just how close he’d come. He reached out blindly for Merrill’s hand, clasping it, then swung a leg over the edge of the table. “Anders,” he said, leaning in as if to stand.

Merrill lunged forward fast, wrapping one thin arm around Carver’s shoulders. “Oh no,” she said in her best scolding tone. She sounded, Anders thought semi-hysterically, like _Leandra_ ; he wondered if that’s where she’d learned it from. “You are going to stay put. _Both_ of you are. Or at the very least,” she added with a quick glance around the teeming infirmary. People were watching them, Anders realized with a flush. Everywhere he glanced, curious eyes darted away. “We’ll help you up to bed.”

“I really need to be here—” Anders began, just as Carver said, “—I have to report back to Cullen.” They each stopped and looked at each other; Anders wasn’t sure whether to laugh or argue or kiss Carver’s stupid face.

He took a breath. “You nearly _died_ ,” he pointed out. Remarkably calm, he thought, for all that he could still feel the terror lancing through him at that first sight of Carver’s still body.

“And _you_ ,” Carver said, bullish as always, “nearly killed yourself trying to heal me. Great going there.”

“Yes, well, _you are welcome_. Brat.” He shrugged off Sebastian’s anxious hovering to step closer, legs still dangerously wobbly but determination too strong to let that stop him. If Carver was within reach, there was nothing that would keep him from being by his side. Not anymore. “And I’d do it again.”

Carver reached out to catch to front of Anders’ robe, tugging him close. His knuckles dragged gently across his jaw. “As if I’d let you,” he murmured, and something about his words—his tone—the way he was looking at Anders as if they were alone in the world made everything in this horrible, crazy, topsy-turvy day all right again.

Carver was here; Carver was his. For now, that was enough.

Merrill said something about going to find help to drag their fool arses upstairs, but her threat felt distant as the Frostbacks. He even thought maybe he’d let her do it. There _was_ work to do, for both of them, but…a few hours of rest couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Maker, but it would feel good to get clean again and crawl into bed with Carver wrapped around him. To be able to rest his head on that broad shoulder and let his hand drift over the steady beat of his heart. To know that he had _saved_ _him_. He had pushed back the inevitable darkness of loss one more day.

Anders sighed, reaching up to curl his fingers around the back of Carver’s neck. He tipped closer, letting their foreheads press together; soaking in his warmth. The infirmary, the burning city, all the bloody world seemed to fall away, the thrum of voices subsumed by Carver’s every breath. Funny how someone who could never be his soulmate had come to define the very shape of his world.

“I’d really rather you not do anything like that ever again,” Anders said, quiet.

Carver grumbled, but he wrapped his arms around Anders’ waist and tipped his chin to brush their mouths together, sweetly. If he cared about anyone witnessing their private moment, he didn’t show it now. “I promise I will try not to get run through again—”

“Or burned to a crisp,” Anders interjected, remembering the fierce red burn marks pocking his exposed skin.

“—or burned to a crisp,” Carver obediently echoed, “if you promise not to run yourself ragged trying to fix me.”

Anders sucked in a breath and let it out in a trembly laugh, fingers curling tighter around every inch of Carver he could touch. “You know I can’t promise you that,” he whispered, layers of heartbreak in every word.

Carver didn’t reply; he simply pulled Anders even closer, as if he could draw him into the broad expanse of his body. As if he could find a way to merge them against all the odds—and fuck Voices, fuck soulmates, fuck fate anyway.

 _This_ , Anders thought, holding on, feeling bruised and shaken and hopeful despite it all. _This is what I’ve chosen. That has to mean something…right?_ Neither Justice, nor the Maker, nor the very universe itself seemed to have an answer to that—but then, who needed any of that when Carver Hawke was by his side so blessedly, wonderfully _alive_?

( _For now_ , that dark, frightening part inside of Anders whispered, refusing to be silenced again. _You can only hope to have this for now._ )


	6. Carver

He felt…

He didn’t even have words for how he felt. Worn down and dried up. Flayed open. _Old_ , in a way he’d never experienced his age before, as if all the vitality had been sucked from his bones, leaving nothing but dust in its wake.

Yeah. Yeah, just dust and ache and a really bad fucking mood. Not to mention a head that felt like it’d rolled right off an executioner’s pike.

 _Stop being such a melodramatic arse_ , Carver tried to tell himself, but it hurt to even think that. Maker. He was in a sorry state. What the void had happened?

Scarily enough, when he tried to remember, all he could grasp was the vague recollection of _fire_.

He turned his face against a familiar-smelling pillow, swallowing the moan that wanted the bubble out of his throat. His chest and belly ached as if he’d gone ten rounds against Ser Merrick’s plate mail fists, and there was a copper taste lingering in the back of his throat. He thought, maybe, he’d thrown up at some point. Or maybe he’d started aspirating blood.

 _Or maybe you’ve taken to gargling dragon piss and glass, you big baby_. Carver huffed out a soft, pained laugh, even as he forced himself to open his eyes. No use wallowing about in misery.

He half expected that piercing pain in his skull to ratchet up the moment he looked around, but the bedroom was blessedly dim—fire banked and curtains drawn against any encroaching sunlight. Trouble lay at the foot of the bed, head already lifting as Carver blinked blearily over. A line of silvery drool threatened the newly washed bedspread.

“Ugh. Go bother Aidan,” he muttered, desperately grateful despite the sour words that Trouble was here. There was something soothing about knowing their dog was watching over him—even if he did huff out a breath and (deliberately, Carver was sure) leave a growing pool of saliva inches away from Carver’s feet. “Ungrateful beast.”

“Hmm?”

Anders’ breath teased the fine hairs at his temple and disturbed the tangled mess of blonde that always seemed to end up bloody everywhere. The mage was curled against Carver’s body with one arm thrown protectively across his middle. He was all nose and morning breath beneath a snarl of unkempt hair, dingey robes tangling about his legs as he lay _over_ the covers instead of _under_ them like anyone sensible. His eyes were bare slits, lashes tacky with sleep and cheek creased from where he’d been using Carver’s shoulder as a pillow, and he was at once the most beautiful and most ridiculous thing Carver had ever seen.

He wanted to kiss his parted lips despite the ringing pain in his skull— _and_ despite the foul gust of exhaled air. _Maker’s breath_ but that was one way to come startling awake.

“Nothing,” Carver murmured, reaching up to cup the back of Anders’ skull. He tipped in close to brush his lips across his brow, then his mouth, willing to dare far more than a bit of bad breath for the pleasure of kissing him. “Just bitching at the dog; go back to sleep.”

“Mmm,” Anders agreed. He settled back, wriggling in close to Carver’s body with a happy little noise. His eyes closed and his hand splayed wide, right over the stretched-tight center of Carver’s chest, where it ached the most. The touch should have been painful—or was it the sense-memory of cold steel and roaring flames and blood spattered with each wracking cough that made it seem that way?—but there was never a time when Anders’ touch didn’t leave him feeling better than he began. More able to face whatever came. “Sleep.”

Carver settled back, shifting until his (increasingly numb) arm could slip around Anders’ back, tugging him closer. He tipped his head until their foreheads rested together, his own eyes sliding shut against the inevitability of rest.

—only to go jerking awake with a startled yelp when Anders suddenly _surged_ up, blonde hair a curtain over his shocked-pale face, robe falling loose and stupidly fetching over one bare, boney shoulder. “Carver!” Anders yelped.

“…yeah?” Carver managed. He levered himself up onto an elbow, squinting a question at the other man. Because really, _what the void_?

Anders didn’t explain. He just shook his head, fingers pushing back the wild mass of his hair, bloodshot eyes gone wide. They swept over Carver once, twice, searching anxiously even as he moved up onto his knees to hover over him: a beautiful scarecrow, the dip of the mattress making him shift and sway.

Carver reached out to steady him, but Anders actually slapped his hand away, as if just touching him would distract from…what? Staring at Carver like he’d been spun from blown glass? The pieces of the previous night were beginning to slot slowly back into place as he came fully awake, underscored by the memory of flames and Cullen acting like a total nutter and all _kinds_ of screaming. Fuck. He much preferred the sleepy little cocoon he’d woken up to over the memory of all of _that_.

“You’re awake,” Anders said, voice rough, as if _he_ were the one who’d been bleeding out not…uh…some unknown time ago.

“I’m awake,” Carver agreed. “Though if you want to go back to unconscious spooning, consider me a fan of— Okay,” he added when Anders silently reached out to yank the covers down around Carver’s waist. “I take it that’s off the table.”

Safely ensconced at the foot of the bed, Trouble lifted his head with something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Anders ignored all that, chilly hands sweeping under the hem of Carver’s shirt to lift it unceremoniously about his pits. “I _told_ them it was better to leave it off,” he muttered to himself, pushing and prodding to get a better look at where Carver vaguely recalled being skewered by a twisted hunk of metal. Funny-not-funny that he kept swearing he _felt_ it, even as Anders’ hands spanning across the muscled planes of his chest did wonders to chase away the pain.

“You know,” Carver said, trying for humorous, the way Aidan might, “if you wanted me naked that badly, you could—” But then Anders was glowing with blue-white light, teeth visibly gritted against pain as he sent a shiver of healing energy into Carver, and all sense of humor broke up and scattered away. Carver batted at his hands, breaking his concentration (with a startled huff, thin brows drawing down into a familiar-beautiful-perfect scowl) and dissipating the spell. “ _Stop that._ You’ll turn yourself inside-out if given half the chance.”

“You still need healing,” Anders said stubbornly. He reached for Carver again, but Carver caught his wrists, rising up to face him.

And yeah, sure, it _hurt_. But it hurt more to see _Anders_ hurt; he could deal with the taste of blood and ash on his tongue. He could deal with the fierce throb in his gut where twisted metal had rearranged his insides. He could even deal with that husked-out-old-worn- _death_ feeling leaving his muscles strained and his soul exhausted. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, deal with Anders beating himself bloody against his own depleted wells of mana just to see him healed. He’d lived through that more than enough, for far too long in the dark days of Aidan’s long recovery _thank you very much_.

“Stop,” Carver said—gently, because Maker knew he understood that driving need to protect protect protect. “Anders,” he added when Anders just tried to push forward, light sparking between his fingers, “I don’t want you to— I don’t _consent_ to being healed.”

That drew Anders up short. He pulled back to finally meet Carver’s eyes through a messy straggle of blonde hair, his brows lifting in question. He looked focused and awake for the first time since they’d surfaced, skinny body vibrating with energy, breath coming perhaps a shade too fast. The way his too-big robe fell around him, stretched neckline exposing the sharp line of his collarbone and a freckled shoulder was unspeakably lovely. “Don’t be stupid,” Anders said. The anxious worry had been replaced, at least temporarily, with acid.

Carver grinned. “Oh, that’s so frustrating for you, isn’t it?” he crooned. He couldn’t help but laugh at the way Anders _clearly_ wanted to backhand his shoulder and yet couldn’t bring himself to do it—as if he were still stuck seeing Carver as _fragile._

( _As if_ , a less darkly amused part of him whispered, _he can’t stop picturing you dead._ )

That stole the laughter, catching it in his throat as he reached out and once again cupped the curve of Anders’ skull. Carver thread his fingers through tangles of hair, gently tugging tugging tugging until Anders finally sighed and slumped forward against him—all warm skin and morning breath and softly parting lips. Willing, at least for now, to stop pushing.

The kiss was more like a series of smaller kisses, each melting effortlessly into the next. Slow and warm with just a hint of shiver; gratitude flavored the flicker of Anders’ tongue, there and gone again in an instant. _Reassurance_ was on the tip of Carver’s as he leaned back against the headboard and tugged Anders after him—knees coming up as he pulled Anders into the protective shell of his body, arms and thighs and chest forming a fortress around him.

 _I’ve got you_ , he thought, tilting up Anders’ chin and letting the kiss deepen by degrees. They were both shielded by the blankets, ensconced in the quiet darkness of the four-poster bed, Anders curled like a seed at the heart of Carver and arms twining slowly around his neck like vines breaking through cold stone. _I’ve got you, I’ve got you, and I’ll never let you go._

Time seemed to stretch, extend, as they kissed and nuzzled and reassured themselves that they were both okay. That they had made it through another close call without either of them coming out the worse for it.

 _How many_ , Carver had to wonder, smoothing a hand down the other man’s back, _will we be given before our luck runs out, too?_

A dark thought. But then, it seemed impossible to sweep those aside now; the air hung heavy with just how close they’d come. He could _feel_ the pain of it, inches away from his heart. He could feel it in the fragile hunch of Anders’ shoulders.

Death had come, as it had come for so many others, and even though Carver had side-stepped it with Anders’ help, it _would_ come again.

From the foot of the bed, Trouble gave an exaggerated wheeze, then stood and thumped down to the ground. Anders begin to smile—his first real smile, thankfully unable to sense the dark turn of Carver’s thoughts—against Carver’s lips. “Your dog hates me,” he murmured, low.

Carver nipped at his lower lip, catching it between his teeth and giving a tug. The shiver that rocked through Anders made answering tendrils of vague heat unfurl low in his own belly—not enough to inspire him to try to do anything about it, but pleasant all the same. Real. Grounding. “My dog hates everyone but Aidan,” he said. “Ungrateful cur. He forgets who _bought_ him.”

Anders hummed, breaking the kiss to nuzzle against the dark rasp of Carver’s stubble. “You know, I don’t believe I’ve heard this story.”

“It’s not a very happy one,” Carver had to admit. Or maybe, if he were being more honest, it was more the tail end of sorrow leading gradually back into joy. Aidan had been a mere shell of himself back then, after the first loss of Fenris ( _the lyrium ritual_ , his brain supplied now that he knew the unwelcome details.) Bethany had been little better, wracked as she was with guilt. They’d been two ghosts haunting the Hawke household, shadows gathered where laughter used to be and every part of Carver aching to find a way to bust through to the other side.

That’s what heroes did, wasn’t it? And at that age—just a boy, Maker—he’d wanted so desperately to be his siblings’ hero.

He sighed, and Anders made a questioning noise deep in his chest. His long, spindly limbs were utterly relaxed within the shelter of Carver’s much bigger body, and _oh_ , but it felt good to shield him like this. Just as good as it had felt to hear his broken siblings _laughing_ again over a tumbling, barking, excitedly squirming mass of illegally obtained mabari pups.

“We didn’t really have the money to spend,” Carver said, mostly to himself. He stroked a palm down Anders’ arm and they shivered in tandem. “If I was smart, I would have saved it for new boots. The soles of mine were all but worn off. I had to bind them back on with flat strips of leather and twine, and I caught hell from everyone who saw me all season for it. But the way they smiled over those fucking dogs…”

Carver let his head fall back, staring sightlessly up at the poster ceiling. His eyes burned suspiciously hot at the cascade of memories: Aidan and Bethany sitting with their heads together, giggling like idiots. Bethany giving a squeal as the tiny puppy—no bigger than a loaf of bread—licked happily at her face. Bright sunlight on her dark hair, in her warm eyes, on her beaming smile as she twisted around to look up at him like joy itself: _his twin_.

Cool fingertips brushed his jaw, Anders twisted within his arms to get a better look at him. “Carver,” he began, low, but Carver caught him before he could turn fully around. He kept his burning eyes fixed on the canopy, unwilling—unable—to look at Anders now. Void, he hadn’t cried over his sister in what felt like ages. Hadn’t cried over any of them, really; there’d been no time _to_ cry. The last time he remembered losing his grip on the tightly clenched reins of his control had been in the shock of Aidan’s return. Standing in their kitchen, staring at the brother he’d been so _sure_ would be lost to dreams forever, hearing all the things he’d never really expected anyone to say.

 _I choose you._ _I came back for you._

Fuck.

“If Bethany were here,” Carver began, only to bite the inside of his mouth hard. Maker, what was wrong with him? The last thing he wanted was to know the truth about _that_.

 _If Bethany were here, would you have chosen to be with her instead of me?_ It was a question that didn’t need an answer—it was too obvious to voice, too painful to face. He wouldn’t even have tried to ask if he weren’t so bruised up inside.

“Never mind,” he added, aware of Anders going still against him. He looked down, finally meeting Anders’ eyes, and did his best to smile. Anders was sitting sideways in the cradle of his thighs now, his own long legs thrown over one of Carver’s, his back pressed against the curve of his arm. The loosened robe and rumpled hair and grey-flecked stubble—and, oh, just a little bit of dried drool at the corner of his mouth—was almost enough to make Carver’s forced smile real. Whether or not Anders would have chosen him, whether he would have preferred Bethany alive over Carver, he was here now. That mattered. “I’m being a right tit. Hey, do you figure we could find some food, or will Isabela have cleaned us out again?”

“Carver,” Anders said. That was it—just his name—but it scraped raw against him.

Carver reached up to gently squeeze the back of Anders’ neck, trying to telegraph how _really honestly okay_ he was with the gesture. There were always going to be pockets of quicksand and unexpected tidepools in their still very new relationship. Too much history was buried between the two of them for it to be any other way. And despite the moments of…hurt…he really did understand how things were and how things had to be.

Anders loved him. He _believed_ that.

Anders had loved Bethany. He believed that even more.

There was just no competing with fate, and he wouldn’t have gone stirring up dark waters if he weren’t already feeling so weirdly stretched thin and hurt inside from just how close he’d come to death. Aching, like that jagged piece of metal had carved out something vital when it pierced his chest. “Come on,” he said, giving Anders a little jostle. “I’m serious; feed me or I’ll start to get cranky. And you _know_ you don’t want that.”

Anders opened his mouth as if to argue, his whiskey-brown eyes a tidepool of emotion: loss, worry, love, sorrow, empathy, guilt.

It was the last that won out. Carver supposed _that_ was answer enough, too—as if he needed more confirmation of what he already knew. Void, he’d seen his fair share of Voice-bonds, hadn’t he? More than his fair share. More than he ever wanted to see again.

Point being, he didn’t need to have it all spelled out for him. And maybe a couple of years ago—a few handfuls of _months_ ago—he would have raged at the idea of being second best. But now, here, Anders curled within the valley of his arms and warm warm warm all the way down to his toes, he was just grateful to be chosen at all.

Consolation prizes were still _prizes_ , right?

 _Stop. It. Now_ , he told himself, and reached up to brush away a strand of hair with his thumb. It was the color of wheat, like the rolling fields outside their old farmhouse. Like the thatch he and Aidan and their father had to lay across the roof year after year. Maker, how he’d bitched about that then; now, he’d give anything to go back. The sun on his shoulders and his mother laughing up at them. Father reaching over to patiently correct his grip. _Like this, Carver,_ he’d say with that lopsided grin Aidan and Bethany had so easily inherited.

Fuck.

Carver turned his face away, hand dropping, attacked on all sides. Memory was like a riptide, dragging him from the shores of the present no matter how hard he fought against its pull, and if _this_ was the inevitable aftereffect of nearly dying, then like hell was he putting himself in this position again. He’d either fight his way through or throw himself on his own sword, because, because—

“Sweetheart,” Anders murmured, cupping Carver’s face, and it was like the word had triggered a spell deep inside him. He could _feel_ the sharp crack, the inevitable fall, and Carver’s breath caught on its jagged edge as he looked up, tears streaming unchecked down his face.

It hurt. It _hurt_ , it hurt so bad he felt like a child again, clutching at Anders and then releasing him in turn—too stubborn to admit just how much he needed. But like his mother used to (oh _Maker_ , his mother, stitched together like a monstrous doll; his fault; his fault; Aidan would have managed to save her if he’d only been there to do it), Anders refused to be put off. He pressed in, pressed their foreheads together, and rode out the erratic buck of Carver’s body as he tried to swallow back a sob.

No good. It came anyway, breaking out of him, his body mind and heart too weak to put up its usual fight. The sound was ragged, almost obscene in its obvious hurt, and Carver turned his head to press his face against Anders’ shoulder, unable to bear the feeling of those understanding eyes on him. It was…it was _too much_ ; it was all just bloody too much, all at once.

Maker, he could still feel the fire against his skin. He could feel the brush of the void. He could feel the ghosts of his loved ones pressing against the veil, and it didn’t matter how little he _actually_ believed in the Maker—in this moment, he was surrounded by them, by memory, by loss, and it was so fucking bitter it made him choke.

If Bethany could see him now, curled against the love of _her_ short life…

Carver started to pull away, stomach flipping at the thought, but Anders made a low noise in the back of his throat and hung on tight. “No,” he said: all but begged. When Carver hesitated, Anders wriggled around—weight shifting against the mattress—and slung one long leg until his ankles could lock at the small of Carver’s back. _He_ was the one encircling Carver now, cradling him, _protecting_ him, and that shouldn’t have been enough for a fresh wave of tears, but Andraste damn it, it seemed like his self-control was all but shredded tonight.

Weirdly, it made him laugh a little, too—choking against it as Anders grabbed two fistfuls of the back of Caver’s tunic and held on with a stubborn set of his jaw.

“What are you doing?” Carver managed. He gently pushed away the specter of his sister and let his hands drop to Anders’ waist, more tentatively than before. He tried to subtly wipe his cheek against his shoulder, but Anders simply leaned in and rubbed his own stubble-rough cheek along his, like a big, needy cat. Carver barked an unsteady laugh. “Anders, serious, _what are you doing?_ ”

“My best,” Anders said simply, and it struck Carver that no one had ever been so brutally honest with him before.

It startled him into stillness, hands flexing once on Anders’ hips, breath caught. If he was still crying, he was blissfully unaware of it now, too focused on the…something…building steadily within his chest. It was fed by the soft _whsk whsk_ of Anders nuzzling against him. It was strengthened by the hot puffs of breath against his skin; the whisper-soft brush of lips; the spasmodic way Anders gripped him tight, as if he were afraid too. As if maybe, possibly, he was just as afraid as Carver, and that idea made his breath catch and his arms circle around Anders’ waist to pull him in tighter.

The door creaked on its hinges, but Carver was too wrapped up in Anders—literally, figuratively, whatever—to care. They were protecting _each other_ now, both held and holding in turn, and… And maybe this wasn’t meant for him. Maybe fate or soulmates or whatever had meant Anders for Bethany, but she wasn’t here now and _he was_ , and oh, it couldn’t be wrong to want this.

Right?

 _I’m sorry, Bethy_ , Carver thought, and gently pushed the guilt away for another day. Eventually, they’d have to talk about it. Eventually, this wound between them would have to be lanced and healed for good—at least, healed as much as a loss this deep _could_ be. But for here, now…

The mattress dipped heavily, rolling them together, and a big, furry head thrust its way into the middle of their embrace. Hot, steamy, disgusting breath wafted between them as Trouble’s tongue lolled out.

“Oh, _gross_ ,” Carver muttered, beginning to smile. He broke the embrace just enough to loop one arm around his stupid dog, pulling Trouble in tight between them. Trouble gave a yelping bark, almost a laugh, and turned to lick at Carver’s cheeks. His nub of a tail wagged as he bent, all but deliberately sticking his hairy arse in Anders’ face.

Anders pulled back with a sigh. “I said it before and I’ll say it again,” he muttered, leaning back on one hand—the full weight of a mabari warhound rested in their laps, and still Anders wasn’t pulling fully away. It was one of the best feelings of Carver’s short and complicated life. “Your dog _hates_ me.”

“Nah,” Carver said, pressing his face into the scruff of Trouble’s neck. “He doesn’t hate you.” He slid his free hand down, down, down, until his fingers could tangle with Anders’. They gave a little squeeze, both at the same time, and it felt like a truce of some sort. A passing through to stalemate in the emotional battle that was their unexpected courtship.

 _I’m doing my best too_ , Carver promised in that little squeeze, all those dark emotions still there but under wraps again. Controlled, for now.

“Oh, doesn’t he?” Anders tried to sound arch, but he was obviously too exhausted for that. They needed food, and a bath (dear _Maker_ but they needed a bath) and more sleep. Soon. But first…first this felt just too good to interrupt. Too much like, like, like…

_Home._

“Nah,” he said again, looking up over Trouble’s happy, panting face to meet Anders’ eyes. The connection sent sparks through him, as if _he_ were that special chosen soulmate. And void, who knew? Maybe it was possible to love someone enough that you could make it so. “I think he loves you almost as much as I do.”

And the warmth that bloomed inside of him at the _look_ on Anders’ face—touched, heartfelt, _real_ —was more than enough to see him through the shadow of his doubts and loss and tangled fears for one more day.


	7. Aidan

There was a storm on the horizon.

Aidan closed his eyes and leaned against the kitchen counter, soaking in the sudden prickling _awareness._ The buzzing just beneath his skin. It was as if someone (Fenris) had leaned close to gust a hot breath across the back of his neck: all at once, every inch of him was electrified. He was heaving in unsteady breaths until they filled his lungs to bursting. Gooseflesh swept down his arms, chasing the shiver that coiled low and increasingly hot in his belly, and oh, Maker, he always did love a good storm.

He could feel it flickering close; he could feel his magic responding the way it always, always did. _Lightning_ called to the surface like a dragon waking from its slumber: hungry.

Somewhere upstairs, close enough he was like a coal burning at the base of Aidan’s spine, Fenris uncoiled in curious response. Sensing, perhaps, the oncoming storm too. Sensing, more likely, the way _Aidan_ was responding; this was the first storm of their bond, Aidan realized, beginning to smile. It was probably the first time Fenris had ever gotten to feel what it was like when an elemental mage thrummed in tune with his chosen materia.

The possibilities of that were…promising. Enough, certainly, to have him dragging in another serrated breath, sensing that burning light unfold petal by petal as Fenris pressed back against his awareness in rumbling question.

It almost hurt to breathe, his heart and lungs were so full. Aidan let out a shaken breath, legs feeling rubbery beneath him. He wanted to tip back into strong arms, a solid chest, a welcome embrace. He tilted his head as if giving way to the hot curl of breath followed by a hotter trail of lips, _tongue_ , teeth scoring skin as his body swayed. A floor separating them and he swore he could feel Fenris _right there_ , hands splayed across his lower belly in question.

Far away but sweeping closer with every quickened breath, thunder rumbled in answer.

And much closer and thoroughly uninterested in the storm or joy it might bring, Trouble whined and pressed hard against his thighs. Huffing in palpable annoyance.

The high-pitched sound dragged Aidan out of his momentary seduction, snapping him back into the moment and away from the simmering heat of his bond. Aidan looked down, amused, as the big mabari seemed to widen his eyes to impossible dimensions. Expectant. “You _can’t_ still be hungry,” Aidan said, deliberately pushing away the elemental awareness simmering low in his blood. _Later_. Maker, but they had all night to explore the possibilities there. “I know for a fact that Orana fed you before she left for the night.”

Trouble simply whined again, pressing harder. His little tail waged in steady sadness.

He snorted and finished pulling together the tray. His hands still shook a little, but he managed to soldier through all the same. If he let himself be distracted by the blistering hotness of his Voice all the time, he’d _never_ get anything done. “All right then, don’t look at me like that,” Aidan said, gently nudging Trouble aside on his way out the kitchen. The big mabari whined again low in his throat, following just a step or two behind. Tongue lolling and eyes wide, as if he hadn’t already been fed more than enough to see him through to morning. “You are _not_ starving.”

The grand hall was so quiet he could hear the pad of his bare feet against cold stone, followed by the click of Trouble’s nails. Thick stone muffled most ambient sound from outside, though nothing could quite dampen his growing awareness of the storm. It stirred the air—stirred his gut—made the hairs along his arms stand up as thunder rumbled in the near distance. A promise made and bound to be kept.

The light was dim, fire and candles burned out already, shadows settling in every corner, lit—

_There!_

—by the sudden flash of light.

Aidan instinctively tipped his face toward the big windows as he padded toward the stairs, arms full thanks to the overburdened dinner tray. Its fragrance overwhelmed the faint scent of ozone, but he could still taste electricity on his tongue; it buzzed through his veins, making his heart skip in response.

Maker, but he really did love a good storm.

Almost as much as he loved his Voice. _And_ his ridiculous dog.

“ _Trouble_ ,” he laughed, very nearly tripping as the mabari surged ahead at the top of the steps, circling there in obvious expectation, little nub of a tail whapping against Aidan’s thigh. He had to pause to steady himself, careful to keep the taurine from spilling his brother’s dinner every which way. “Look me in the eye and tell me you _really_ want to steal Carver’s food from him. Carver. Who was on his deathbed not four days ago.”

Trouble met his gaze steadily, head cocked, tongue lolling. He almost looked like he was laughing, the utter arsehole.

Aidan shook his head. “You’re the worst,” he said, carefully maneuvering around the warhound, refusing the temptation to peel off one of Orana’s freshly baked buns to drop on the floor. That would only encourage the greedy beast. “The absolute worst. I’m _certain_ the Hero of Ferelden never had to put up with this sort of nonsense. _Her_ mabari was perfectly well-behaved.”

Trouble just barked once, happily, making Aidan laugh as he reached Carver’s door. He was still grinning, still shaking his head, as he leaned his shoulder against the door and balanced the tray carefully on one hand. He considered knocking for a fraction of a second, then decided against it. Carver was almost all the way to healed by now—almost well enough that Meredith couldn’t be put off much longer—but he still needed his rest. They had come…well. He didn’t want to think how close they really had come to losing him. How close Aidan had come to being the only Hawke left standing.

_Stop_ , he told himself, smile flickering, then fading. He cleared his throat, free hand fumbling for the handle, and forced the haunted fear off his face as he gently pushed his way into his brother’s room.

It was dark—darker even than the dim shadows of the great hall—and near-silent. Curtains had been drawn against the night, bare strips of faint light thrown across the floor. They flickered into moments of brightness followed by a muffled clap of thunder, barely illuminating the figure curled on its side in the center of the bed.

Aidan felt something twist inside his heart as he took in the tangled blankets half-falling to the floor. Carver always had been a restless sleeper.

“Hush,” he whispered to Trouble, nudging the door a bit wider with his hip. “ _Stay_.”

Trouble cocked his head, watching as Aidan quietly, almost silently, slipped into his brother’s room. It was ridiculously good to have him here, even if the _reason_ he was staying so long wasn’t. He wondered fleetingly what it would take to convince Meredith to allow Carver to live at home all the time, and whether this was something a bloody Champion or whatever was allowed to throw his weight around on.

Thoughts for later, maybe.

He only glanced once toward the bed as he made his way around its looming shape, heading for one of the side tables. Waking Carver was out of the question, of course, but he could leave his dinner with a spell to keep its warmth a little longer. Working quickly, quietly, Aidan nudged a clear space on the table and set down the tray. He lifted the top of the tureen, the scent of spices uncurling on hot drifts of steam, reminding him of, Maker, Lothering. His mother leaning over the cookfire with a grey-streaked braid dangling over her shoulder, Bethany and Carver squabbling at the other side of the room. Father sitting in his chair, work-roughened hands folded over his belly as he watched Aidan putter about the kitchen, helping to chop veggies to toss into the stew, and…

And funny, how the memory was so strong and so very bittersweet. Almost enough to bring tears to his eyes as he dropped the lid of the clay pot back into place and called up the barest flicker of flame.

He kept his fingers curled around the top of the tureen, letting fire lick across his knuckles as he warmed the pot just enough to trap its heat before stepping away. Aidan flicked his fingers once, watching sparks jump like fireflies through the dim before disappearing in another crack of lightning.

“There we go, baby brother,” he murmured, feeling, just, _full_. Of loss, of love, of fear and protective fervor, because Maker knew he’d never let Carver come so close to being just another bittersweet memory again. Not if he could do anything to stop it. He turned, bending to grab the edge of the fallen, twisted comforter, and tugged it back up onto the mattress. His hands moved automatically, effortlessly mimicking the way Leandra used to tuck them in at night, feeling the ghost of his mother in every move as he leaned forward to fold its edges over his sleeping brother.

Only to come nose-to-bare-assed-skin with _Anders_ in the next flicker of lightning.

Aidan froze, eyes going wide at the impression of freckles over a too-thin flank before _jerking_ back with a muffled yelp. He clapped a hand over his eyes, suddenly seeing the single figure on the bed as _two_ , _two_ figures twined together like snakes and _void take his eyes_ were they naked???

No. No. No no no, he really didn’t need to know the answer to that, oh sweet Maker.

…Carver would bloody well eat his face if he woke to find Aidan here now.

Stifling a choking laugh, Aidan carefully shuffled away from the bed, keeping that one hand half-covering his eyes. He lifted it just enough to be able to peek down at the floor, noticing that the lumps of clothes scattered here or there were a mix of Carver’s and, oh, yes, feathers. Anders was definitely at some level of bare-assed under the covers Aidan had so _tenderly_ spread over the bed moments before.

The laugh escaped, just loud enough to have Trouble—still obediently stationed at the door—cocking his head with a jolly lolling tongue. From the bed came a rustle of fabric and a soft sigh, and Aidan scooted fast past the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him before he could get caught interrupting…just, well, whatever the void he’d been interrupting.

The second the door clicked shut, he looked down at his dog, who was staring up at him with bright, dancing eyes, as if to say: _there now, wouldn’t you have rather fed_ me _that dinner and saved yourself the sight of Anders’ skinny arsecheeks?_

Aidan lost his held breath on a choked snicker.

He leaned forward, shoulders shaking, clapping his hand over his mouth instead to muffle the sound. He couldn’t even say why he found it all so funny. He’d known Anders and Carver were (finally) getting their act together. He’d known Anders had (finally) pulled his head out of his arse and figured out who he _really_ wanted.

Bloody void, they’d all but sucked each other’s faces off in the middle of the street on the night the Viscount fell!

But there was a huge vast stretch of difference between knowing that his _baby brother_ and freaking _Anders_ were having…some vague sort of physical relationship he didn’t want to contemplate…and seeing proof of it with his own eyes. They could have been completely naked under there. They could have been having all kinds of…of…of things he _didn’t want to think about, thanks_ , while he was blissfully, ignorantly going about his day.

…Maker, it was Peaches all over again.

That nearly broke him. Aidan let out a barely-muffled bark of laughter, head dropped down, body hunched over, shoulders shaking with desperately repressed mirth. It was just— It was so—

Carver.

And _Anders_.

As happy as he was for them, the preposterousness of that pairing—the memory of Carver making exaggerated gagging noises every time Bethany so much as breathed her Voice’s name—tickled something deep inside. It was crazy where life ended up taking you. Who would have thought that the very boy who proudly declared that love was for idiots and mages would end up curled so tenderly around the very idiot mage he’d spent so many years ridiculing?

“The world,” Aidan decided, dropping his hand as he slowly straightened up, “is a wonderfully bizarre place. Don’t you think?”

Trouble just lolled his tongue and gave him a _look_ that was all too easily translated to: _yes, well, you’re one to talk._

“Oh hush, you,” Aidan said, words shivering on a laugh. He pushed away from the door, ruffling Trouble’s ears on his way past. He paused by Merrill’s door for just a moment, halfway tempted to check in on her too—as if he really was Leandra making her nightly rounds to settle her children in for the night. The idea should have made his heart ache, but instead, it just made him feel warm inside—connected to her again.

Still…

“Probably best not,” Aidan told Trouble thoughtfully. He smirked at Trouble’s cocked head. “With my luck, she’ll have Sebastian tucked in her bed, naked as his name-day.” Aidan paused. “Or Isabela.” Pause. “Or, well, maybe both: you know, I’m not going to think about that.”

Trouble gave an agreeable bark, tongue lolling playfully. Aidan scratched behind the big warhound’s ears, passing Merrill’s room on his way farther down the hall. The estate was quiet save for the drum of rain against the windows and the heavy roll of thunder, and yet…

And yet it didn’t feel empty at all. It felt _full_ , bursting with life, with possibility. Father, Mother, and Bethany might be gone, but there was still so much love and life filling this creaky old place, and that had Aidan smiling softly to himself as he padded to his own room and quietly slipped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the fresh scent of rain, chased by the thrilling tang of ozone. Cool air kissed his cheeks and ruffled dark curls as night air blew through the open windows. The curtains had been pushed aside, heavy drapes looped back on iron hooks, white gauze drifting like smoke in the air: unexpectedly beautiful. The fire was burned down low but still held a hint of warmth, glowing coals throwing shadows across the floor and walls. Its unexpected heat contrasted sharply with the cold of the oncoming storm, and Aidan shivered in response, something inside him…shifting.

Adjusting.

Becoming _aware_ of eyes on him as he blindly reached back and pulled the door closed behind him.

Fenris’s voice rumbled over the purr of thunder, full of every kind of sinful promise. “You took your time.” And then he stepped out of the shadows, silvery lines criss-crossing his _oh-Maker-naked_ and _fully aroused_ body in the brilliant flicker of lightning…and Aidan fell headfirst, gladly, into the coming storm.


End file.
